


Windows

by Builder



Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Concussions, Drunkenness, F/F, Fainting, Fever, Flu, Friendship, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Motion Sickness, Other, Overheating, Post-Concussion Syndrome, Science Bros, Sickfic, Unrelated chapters, Vomiting, coachella, heat exhaustion, one shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2019-05-02 00:23:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 129
Words: 45,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14532630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: A series of unrelated Avengers drabbles. Includes Captain America, Thor, Black Panther, Iron Man, and misc. Avengers installments.  Most are sickfics. All are very, very short.





	1. Steve is seasick on a cruise

**Author's Note:**

> Many of these are from a game I frequently play over on Tumbler: 200-word fics. I crank out as many as I can as quickly as I can while my readers throw it all my way.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr @builder051
> 
> This work crosses my series, which I know is hella frustrating for you and really un-thoughtful of me. I'll put the 'verse in notes before each chapter.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heroverse

Bucky unlocks the cabin door, wrapping his flesh arm around Steve’s waist as the metal one works the doorknob.  

“I’ve been waiting all night t have you all to myself, you know,” he teases.  

Steve grins, but there’s tension behind the smile.  

Bucky tips his head as they enter the spacious room.  “You ok?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Steve says.  “’Course I am.”

Bucky shuts the door behind them and tugs Steve into an embrace.  He kisses Steve’s neck below his ear.  “You sure?” he whispers.

“Mm.”  

But he can feel Steve swallowing, the stiffness spreading.  

“Talk to me, Stevie.”  Bucky pulls back to look him in the eye.  

“I don’t know.  Maybe I ate too much?”  He moves one arm across his abdomen and shifts on his feet.  His shoulders jerk upward as he fights a hiccup.

“You wanna lie down, maybe?”  Bucky gestures at the richly colored bedspread.  “I mean, to rest.”

Steve shrugs.  “I’m ok.”  But his voice comes out garbled, like he’s forcing spit down with paralyzed throat muscles.  

“Hey, if you don’t feel good—”  

Steve pitches forward, spilling undigested dinner across the intricate design of the Persian carpet.  He brings his hand up a moment too late, only serving to redirect the stream of sick into a spray.

“Sorry,” he says when he can finally speak.  “I didn’t mean to…”

“I know,” Bucky says, patting him on the back.  “You’ll be ok.  Don’t know if I can say the same for the rug, though…”


	2. Nat and Bucky stuck in an elevator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Powers/No Powers

Nat’s already in the elevator, a huge stack of folders in her arms, when Bucky sticks his hand between the closing doors and slips inside.  “Hey,” he greets her.  

“Hey,” she shoots back.  Bucky’s pale, and his eyes and nose are red.  Nat looks at him quizzically.  “Going to see Steve?”

“Yeah,” he says.  “I’m meeting him for lunch.”

“You should’ve made him come to you,” Nat says.  “No offense, but you look like you could use some chicken soup.”

“I’m alright,” Bucky says.  “Just a cold.  Nothing worth cancelling over.”

The elevator jerks upward, and Shifts against the metal wall.  He presses his lips together.

They rise a few floors, then the box unexpectedly grinds to a halt.  The next floor icon doesn’t alight.  

“Fuck,” Nat mutters.  She shifts the folders in her grip and pummels the door open button.  Nothing happens.  “Goddammit.  I have a meeting.”  She looks to Bucky.  “You have a date.”

But Bucky’s not paying attention.  He wedges his stump arm into the corner of the box and faces the wall, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly.

“You ok over there?”

Bucky answers with a retch.

“Aw, shit.”  Nat drops her load of paperwork and pats him on the back.  

“I have to get out of here,” he croaks before succumbing to another heave.  He pushes his hair back with his shaking hand.

“I’m gonna fix it,” Nat promises.  “Just try to breathe.”


	3. Bucky wakes up with the stomach flu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No 'verse. Falls easily into Powers/No Powers, Whoa Bessie, Heroverse, or Missing Moments.

Bucky isn’t sure what startles him awake, but he knows it’s not a nightmare.  He’s still sweaty and disoriented, but the usual panic and hazy war images are absent.  His hair sticks to his face, and a throb emanates through his entire body.  What he does know is that something’s wrong.

He’s on the point of turning over to wake Steve, but as he rolls onto his side, heat rises in his throat and vomit spills down his chest and onto the sheets.  He tries to say Steve’s name, to cough out any words at all, but the attempt is lost in another heave.  

“What’s—?  Oh, god.  Buck?”  The mattress dips as Steve sits up, and it sends another wave of dizziness through Bucky’s tender body.  

“It’s alright.  Here.”  Steve pushes the small plastic trashcan toward Bucky, holding it under his chin as he retches and coughs.  

Eventually he gets his breath back, and Bucky mutters, “Fuck, Stevie, I’m sorry.  I don’t know—”  He cuts off with another gag.  

“It’s alright,” Steve soothes.  “Just get it all up and we’ll worry about cleaning later.”

Bucky groans, fighting the inevitable.  

“It’s ok to be sick.  Happens to everybody once in a while.”  Steve pats his shoulder.

“Supposed to happen to you.  Not to me,” Bucky grumbles.  He spits up a mouthful of bile.

“Maybe it’s just my turn to take care of you a little bit, huh?”

Bucky doesn’t protest.


	4. Bucky's undone by a migraine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Powers/No Powers

Sam notices something’s wrong before Bucky does, and he takes the initiative to call Steve.  

“Hey,” Steve says quietly as he walks into Bucky’s cubicle.  “What’s going on?”

Bucky lifts his head from his curled arm and squints up at him.  He shakes his head an inch to each side.  Everything feels all wrong, but he doesn’t have the words to relay it.

“It’s ok, Buck. Let’s just go home.”  

He throws up in the car when they’re a block from the house.  By some miracle, Steve doesn’t say anything.  He just reaches over to pat Bucky’s shoulder as he slows the car to a crawl.  

Once they’re parked in the garage, Steve brings him a paper towel and helps him stand up.  “Where do you want to be?  In the bathroom?” he asks.

“I…” Bucky croaks.  “I think I’ll be fine if I just lay down for a while…”  He leverages himself on Steve’s arm, then the door frame as they enter the house.  Bucky wants to go upstairs, but he only makes it to the entryway when his knees buckle.

“Whoa, alright.”  Steve catches him around his chest and keeps him from hitting the floor.  He holds Bucky to him in a loose hug, gently supporting his full, trembling weight.  “It’s gonna be alright.”


	5. Steve tries to sleep with a migraine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No 'verse. Falls easily into Powers/No Powers, Whoa Bessie, Heroverse, or Missing Moments.

“I’m fine, Buck, I promise,” Steve says, though he realizes he may not sound so convincing from his current position.  He’s flat on his back in bed, his hands folded over his eyes to block out the dim light from the lamp.  “Just come to bed.  It’ll be gone in the morning.”

Bucky starts to crawl up beside him, but he pauses.  “You sure?  You haven’t taken any painkillers or anything…”  He makes to get up again.

“I’m alright.”  Steve reaches blindly and catches Bucky’s wrist.  “Please stop moving.  It’s making me feel sicker.”

Bucky slows his movements and eases into a reclined position at Steve’s shoulder.  “You said you were alright, though,” he whispers.

“I am,” Steve says.  “It’s a headache, not the end of the world.  Just…don’t worry about me.  I’ll sleep it off.”

“You sure you don’t want a painkiller?”

“Buck,” Steve squints at him, then reaches over to turn out the lamp.  “I want you to not worry so much.  We’ll both go to sleep, and I’ll be fine in the morning.”

“You can’t know that,” Bucky whispers.  “I wish you’d let me take care of you.”

“I am, Buck.”  Steve pats his hand.  “You’re doing a good job.”


	6. Steve and Bucky overhear the neighbors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Non-existent 'verse where Steve and Bucky have an apartment together in modern times.

_“Ohhhh.  Yes.  Fuck.  Yes!”_

Steve looks up from the sketchpad in his lap.  He’s leaning against the headboard, and Bucky’s curled at the foot of the bed with National Geographic.  “Huh?”

Bucky sits up and cocks his head, looking as confused as Steve feels.  

_“Oh my god.  Yesssss!”_

The voice is muffled.  Unmistakably feminine.  And…coming out of the wall?  They’ve been in the apartment for a solid month and never heard anything like this before.

“Aw, shit.”  Bucky bursts out laughing.  He falls back onto his elbows.  “It’s the goddamn neighbors.”

Steve looks down at his half-finished drawing, his cheeks reddening with secondhand embarrassment.  “That’s…wow.  We never heard any of that back in Brooklyn.  And I’d think those apartments had thinner walls.”

Bucky shrugs.  “People are probably just less careful.”

“Huh.”  Steve steals a glance behind him, taking in the way their headboard butts up against the wall.  He makes a mental note to move it out a couple inches next chance he gets.  

_“Oh, yes!  Fuck!  Yes!”_

“Anyway…”  Bucky reaches to the bedside table for his phone.  “Music?”  

“Yes.  Please.”  Steve doesn’t think he’s ever been quicker to agree.


	7. Loki has a stomach bug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't write for Thor or Loki at all, but I was highly encouraged to spit this thing out...

Loki sits slumped against the wall, both arms wrapped around his stomach.  He swallows heavily, hoping to breathe through the nausea before he’s sick, or worse, someone sees him.  

Luck runs out, though, and soon Thor’s heavy footfalls round the corner.  “Brother?” Thor asks, a mix of concern and confusion filling his eyes, though his tone is wary.  “What ails you?”

“I think it’s what Midgardians refer to as a ‘stomach bug,’“ Loki groans through gritted teeth.


	8. Bucky struggles in Wakanda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing Moments. This is possibly my favorite thing I've ever written, tbh. (Prompt from sxldato, btw. Check them out. They're awesome.)

Bucky’s supposed to be having dinner with his host family, but the thought of sitting down in the kitchen runs up against a block in his mind.  The kids’ happy chatter, the sounds of dishes being passed… It’s going to be too much.  

He heads outside by himself and walks along the river for a ways, but it doesn’t make him feel any better.  The roar of the rushing water bounces off the inside of his skull and kicks up an ache that mixes badly with the tension in his jaw.  

Bucky doesn’t know where else to go, though.  If he turns around and goes back to the village, he’ll see the woman with the herb garden who reminds him of Steve’s mom.  Or the scrawny kid who reminds him of Steve.  Or the boy who sticks up for him and reminds Bucky of himself…  Of who he used to be.  That’s not who he is anymore.  He doesn’t know who he is anymore.  

The rhythm of his footsteps melds with the throb in his head, but Bucky doesn’t stop walking until someone says something and his thoughts shatter.  “White wolf?”

Bucky jerks his chin up, panic rising and bringing unexpected dizziness.  Shuri stands a few paces away.  She has on one of her arm cannons.  She was probably doing a test run.  Bucky’s sorry he disturbed her.  He opens his mouth, but doesn’t have anything to say.

“What’s wrong?” Shuri asks.  She takes off her weapon and sets it on the ground.  She’s must think it’s making him uncomfortable.  Bucky could laugh; given all the peace and prosperity he’s been forced to adjust to lately, the arm canon is probably the thing he’s most comfortable with.  

That’s sad.  His whole existence, it’s pathetic.  Emotion wells up unexpectedly in his chest, and Bucky’s breath shakes with the threat of tears.  It hurts his head to hold them in.

“White wolf?” Shuri prompts again.  She takes a step toward Bucky, her arms outstretched low in front of her.

“I…don’t know,” Bucky murmurs.  It’s a better answer than everything.  He doesn’t mean to start crying, but tears leak from the corners of his eyes before he can stop them.  Bucky jams the heel of his hand into his eye socket to stem the flow.

Shuri catches his elbow with a feather-light touch.  “Don’t cry,” she says.  “Where do you hurt?”

She’s so pure.  So kind.  She thinks she can fix him.  Or at least help him.  Bucky chokes back a sob.  He’s not going to be the one to tell her she can’t.  He’s broken beyond repair.  So he swallows hard and whispers, “My head.”


	9. Loki panics pre-Infinity War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consider this the moment between the ending of Thor: Ragnarok and the beginning of Infinity War. Missing Moments.

The shadow passes over the ship’s window, and Loki feels his blood run cold.

“What is that?”  Thor asks, peering out of the portal.  “Or, really, who is it?”

The hair on the back of Loki’s neck prickles.  He doesn’t know what exactly Thor is seeing, but the sense of dread settling in his chest is enough.  He knows who this is.  Someone he’d hoped to be done with ages ago.  But deep down he’d known he’d never truly be free of…

“…Thanos,” Loki whispers.

“What?”  Thor turns to face him, brows raised, head cocked.

“I…”  Loki shakes his head minutely.  His stomach clenches.  He feels sick.

“What, are you frightened, brother?”  Thor socffs.  “It’s just another ship.”

“You…you do not know the magnitude of what he’s capable of,” Loki murmurs.  He’s suddenly trembling, his palms slick with sweat.

“Who is this?  How do you know him?”  Thor demands.  “Whoever he is, he’s no match for us.”

“No, listen to me.”  Loki swallows nausea and raises his hands.  He can’t keep the pleading note from his voice.  “He’s much stronger than you think.”

“Brother.”  Thor claps his hand on Loki’s shoulder.  “What in all the realms have you to fear?”

Loki swallows hard again and presses his fingers over his lips. “He’s going to kill me.”


	10. The T'Challa and Shuri atacids headcaonon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin. And blame tumblr for this one. Pantherverse.

T’Challa shifts in his seat, hoping the creaking of the swivel chair will cover the rumbling in his gut.  He spreads his suit out over the table, pointing out the spot of the defect.

“Hm.  I see,” Shuri says, bending close to examine the damage to the fabric.  

T’Challa’s stomach groans again, and he pulls his arm across it.  A sour taste breaks out over the back of his tongue, and he swallows the urge to belch.  

Shuri turns her head toward him, raising her brows and setting her face in an expression of disgust.  She flicks her gaze to his abdomen, then back to his face.  “Really?” she asks.

“It’s nothing.  I’m fine.”  T’Challa swallows hard again, but the nausea keeps rising, and he grits his teeth against it.

Shuri lets out a frustrated sigh and pushes her chair back.  She stalks away, and T’Challa hears her rummaging in the cabinets on the other side of the room.  He takes the opportunity to rest his head on the edge of the cool tabletop.  He exhales slowly; his diaphragm trembling.

“Here.”  Shuri slams a bottle of antacids down.  The sound makes T’Challa jump, and he quickly sits back up.

“Shuri, I told you.  I am fine.”  But he wraps his other arm around his stomach all the same.

Shuri shakes her head.  “You really should listen to me.  You have to admit, I’m right on this one.”


	11. The Clint is too nauseous to make breakfast headcanon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is says on the tin. Blame Tumblr for this one. Jonestown.

“Daddy, I’m still hungry!” Lila shouts from the breakfast table.  She probably doesn’t mean to say it so loudly and whiney, but Clint isn’t in the mood to deal with it this morning.  

“Yup, coming, sweetheart,” he says through gritted teeth as he shoves the spatula under the not-quite-done pancake sizzling in the pan.  Will she care if it’s a little gooey in the middle?  Probably.  But if he lets it keep cooking, the scent of the smoky griddle will start wafting up, and that’s not something Clint’s in the mood to deal with either.  “Ok, bring me your plate.”  

Clint loads her up with another pancake, the averts his gaze as she drowns it in syrup.  “You, uh, you got enough, Cooper?” he asks his son, praying he does so Clint can be done with chef duty.  

“Yeah.  Thanks, Dad.”  Hallelujah.  

“Ok.  Good.”  Clint turns off the stove and steps away from the sweet-smelling mess of batter and dirty dishes.  There’s a cup of now-cold coffee waiting for him on the counter, but the thought of drinking it makes his stomach flip.  He glances up at the clock, and a wave of relief washes over him when he sees there are only five minutes left until the kids have to be on the school bus.  Then he feels guilty.  But mostly, he feels sick.

“Hey, we gotta finish up quick.  Get your stuff.  The bus is gonna be here…”  He hates the way the end of his sentence dissolves into a nauseous hiccup, but the kids don’t seem to notice.  Lila shoves the last bites of her pancake into her mouth and runs her plate to the sink.  

Cooper takes his backpack off the hook by the door.  “Bye, Dad.”

“Bye, Dad!”  Lila echoes.  She’s still chewing.  

“Bye,” Clint says weakly.  Clammy sweat breaks over his forehead, and time seems to go into slow motion as the kids run to the front door and slam it shut behind them.

Clint bolts to the sink as soon as he’s sure they’re gone, unable to hold down the heaves a moment longer.  He doesn’t have time to care that the basin’s full of dirty dishes.  He grips the edges of the counter with trembling hands and retches.

A hand comes down on his back, and Clint starts.

It’s just Laura, with the baby on her hip and a look of concern in her eyes.   “Rough start?” she asks.

“Ugh.”  Clint hiccups.  “Yeah.”


	12. Nat comforts T'Challa after T'Chaka's death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing Moments, Pantherverse

As Nat approaches the door, the guards stationed on either side raise their spears to block her entrance.

“Hey,” Nat says, putting up her hands.  “I’m not here to attack him.”  She opens her jacket to show the waistband of her jeans.  “I’m not even packing.”

“Then why are you here?” one of the guards asks, a suspicious look on her face.

“I just want to see if he’s ok.”

The guards look at each other, then back to Nat.  “I am not sure he’s up to visitors,” the same woman says.

“I am fine,” T’Challa’s muffled voice comes from inside the room.  “Let her in.”  There’s a short pause, and the guards look doubtful.  “Please.”

With that, they lower their spears and step aside, allowing Nat to reach out and turn the knob.  She eases the door open slowly.  T’Challa sits on the bed with his back to the door, hunched over so the top of his head is barely visible over the trembling hunch of his shoulders.

“Hey,” Nat says again, this time quietly.  She rounds the bed and perches on the edge of the mattress.  She knows better than to ask how are you?, so she just rests her fingers lightly on T’Challa’s arm.

T’Challa takes in a shuddering breath and drags his fists across his eyes before resting his chin in his hands.  “I…don’t know,” he sighs, as if he knows exactly what Nat’s not saying.  “I don’t know how I could let that happen.  I was right there.  I should have…”  A sob cuts off his words, and he clenches his hand over his mouth as he swallows down tears and maybe more.

“It’s not your fault,” Nat says firmly.  She moves her hand to his shoulder, digging her fingers into the tense muscle.  “You have to know that.  Someone wanted him gone.  It’s got nothing to do with you.”

She doesn’t expect T’Challa to believe her.  If their roles were reversed, Nat wouldn’t believe it.  But it’s the best she can offer, and to the best of her knowledge, it’s true.

“But… I still should’ve,” T’Challa gasps.  “I am his protector.  I am his son.”  He squeezes his eyes shut, and the flush of emotion drains from his cheeks.

Nat slips her arm around him, not sure if the increased touch is appropriate, but he looks like he badly needs the embrace.  “You’re gonna be ok,” Nat murmurs.  “What do you need?  What can I do?”

T’Challa leans into her, his forehead coming down on Nat’s shoulder, his face buried in her collarbone.  “I…” he starts.  “I feel so bad.  It makes me ill.”  His shoulders hunch up and down as he fights a sob or a gag, Nat isn’t sure which.  She doesn’t care.

“That’s…understandable,” Nat soothes.  He cools the back of his neck with her palm.  “It’s all a mess right now.  But give it a little time.  You’re going to be fine.”


	13. Bucky continues to struggle with depression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Powers/No Powers

Bucky forces himself out of bed half an hour before Steve’s due to be home.  If he puts on jeans and combs his hair and goes and reads a magazine at the kitchen table, maybe he can put up a front that he feels better.  Maybe he will feel better.

He yanks the quilt up in a semblance of making the bed, but gives up when he realizes it’s severely crooked, almost draped almost diagonally across the mattress.  It’s not worth the time to straighten it.  Or more like not worth the energy.  He’s got nothing but time.  It’s the energy he severely lacks.

Bucky’s seated at the table when the sound of a key scraping in a lock carries through the quiet downstairs.  “Hey, Buck,” Steve says, his voice rising into a too-good-to-be-true whisper, as if he’s afraid to scare Bucky away with his happiness.

Bucky knows he’s made strides.  A stride.  He made it downstairs.  Big whoop.  But putting on clean clothes doesn’t conceal the fact that he still hasn’t showered, and staring at the dark screen of his laptop hardly counts as doing something.  He knows Steve sees through him.  And that makes the progress he has made feel that much smaller and stupider.

“How are you?” Steve asks carefully, setting down his backpack.  He puts his hand on Bucky’s shoulder to test the waters.

Bucky shrugs in answer to the question, but he doesn’t throw off Steve’s touch.

“Alright,” Steve whispers.  He wraps Bucky into a hug and presses his lips to his greasy hairline.  It feels good.  Bucky tries not to cringe.

Steve makes grilled cheese and tomato soup even though Bucky says he doesn’t want any.

“It’s ok if you’re not hungry,” Steve says as he sets down the plates.  Which, of course,  _means please eat something_.

Bucky shoves down a few bites, for Steve’s benefit.  An hour later, all he has to show for it is acid reflux.  He meanders to the living room couch and curls onto his side, drawing his knees toward his chest.  Lying down isn’t going to help his stomach, but it’s something he does now.  Practically the only thing.

Steve finishes putting away the clean dishes and drapes an afghan over Bucky’s legs.  Bucky pretends to be asleep.


	14. T'Challa is nauseous at the gym

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pantherverse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another prompt from tumblr. Find me @builder051

T’Challa stands in the corner of the gym, holding his water bottle and pretending to take a drink.  He’d hoped stepping off the mat and taking a breather would calm the churning in his gut, but now that he’s standing still and free from the distraction of training, he only feels worse.

 

“Hey, anytime you want your turn back,” Nat calls, “Just push me out of the way.”  She aims a kick at the bag Clint’s holding for her. 

 

“Sure,” T’Challa says, trying to put on a smile.  “I just…need a moment.”  He takes a tiny sip from his water bottle, then holds his fist to his mouth to quell a belch that’s more acid than water.

 

“Why don’t you take a breather?” Clint suggests, raising his eyebrows at Nat.

 

“I don’t need one,” she answers shortly, kicking again.

 

“Well,” Clint says as the bag is forced into his shoulder, “I do.  I’m not as young as I used to be.”

 

Nat scoffs.  “Fine.  But a little training didn’t used to tire you out so much.”

 

“Well, I didn’t used to be  _retired_.”  Clint jumps down from the mat and grabs a water bottle as Nat takes up with a hanging bag instead. “How’re you doing?” he asks, leaning against the wall at T’Challa’s shoulder.

 

“I’m alright,” T’Challa says, wiping sweat from his forehead.  He feels clammy and shaky, though he hopes he just looks tired from training. “The air here is…drier than I’m used to.”  His stomach sits heavily in his chest, and another sick burp threatens to escape.

 

“Better here than in the city,” Clint says.  “That’s like breathing in car exhaust 24/7.”  He gives T’Challa a good once-over and asks, “You sure you’re ok?”

 

“Yes, I’ll be fine.”  T’Challa takes another sip of water, but regrets it immediately when his throat contracts and sends it right back up, bitter with the taste of bile.  He covers his mouth and tries frantically to swallow it again.

 

“No.”  Clint shakes his head, lines of concern appearing on his forehead.  “That looked like it was probably really gross.”

 

“It was…just too big a sip…” T’Challa protests weakly, though the urge to gag is rising rapidly.

 

“Listen.”  Clint claps a hand gently on T’Challa’s shoulder and turns him 90 degrees to face the trash can wedged in the corner.  “I have three kids.  You don’t have to put up pretenses.  No one’s gonna judge you.”

 

Just seeing the trash sends T’Challa’s gut into contraction again, and he fights not to retch. 

 

“Just let it out, man.  I don’t want to watch you bite it back all day.”  Clint pats him on the back. 

 

It puts T’Challa over the edge.  He lurches forward, heaving hard. 

 

“Alright.  There you go,” Clint murmurs.

 

There’s a beat of silence as Nat pauses her pummeling of the bag.  “He ok?” she asks across the gym.

 

Clint shoots a thumbs up over T’Challa’s head.


	15. T'Challa is injured and Nat tells Shuri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pantherverse

 

Nat listens to the phone ring out as she paces the hall.

 

“Hello?” Shuri picks up.

 

“Hey, it’s Nat,” she says.

 

“I know,” the younger woman replies, a note of impatience in her voice.  “What’s wrong?”

 

“You can already tell, huh?”  Nat chuckles.  “It’s nothing major.  You don’t need to worry.”

 

“Natasha…”  Shuri takes on a warning tone.

 

“Ok, he took hard hit.  There was some damage to the suit.”  Nat peers through the window to the medical bay.  T’Challa’s stripped to the waist and sitting on a cot while a doctor palpates his bruised side.  The X-ray is clearly visible on a screen behind him.  “He might have cracked some ribs.”

 

“Why is he not here, then?” Shuri asks impatiently.

 

“He’s in medical,” Nat says.  “He’s getting the best care we have.”

 

“Not the best care  _I_  have.”  Nat can practically hear Shuri shaking her head.  “Really, Nat, I could have him back to normal in five minutes.”

 

“Hey, it’s not my choice,” Nat protests.  “It’s protocol.”

 

“Well, change the protocol.”

 

Nat can’t help but laugh.  “No promises,” she says.  “But I’ll see what I can do.”


	16. Steve wakes up sick in the middle of the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No verse. Fits well in Powers/no powers, heroverse, whoa bessie, and missing moments.

 

It’s 3am when Steve wakes on red alert.  “It’s ok,” he mumbles automatically, reaching for Bucky’s shoulder in the tangle of sheets beside him.  Bucky’s sound asleep, though.  He’s not grappling with a nightmare.

 

Steve blinks in the darkness, confused about what woke him up.  Then his stomach flips into his chest and his throat goes tight and it’s all he can do to trip into the ensuite and get down in front of the toilet. 

 

His partially digested dinner comes up in two huge gushes.  Steve coughs weakly.  He peers back over his shoulder to see if Bucky’s even moved.  He hasn’t. 

 

Steve’s relieved that Bucky’s not sick too, but he’s wary.  He doesn’t want to disturb his rest when Bucky so rarely gets any.  The sight of him breathing slowly and peacefully under the covers makes Steve’s gut ache and his head throb a little worse.

 

He turns back to the toilet and throws up again, though there’s not much more than bile left.  It burns Steve’s throat, and the taste lingers no matter how many times he spits.  He breathes for a moment and thinks about getting off his stiff knees to rinse his mouth and stumble back to bed. 

 

Steve gets about a foot from the toilet when his gut spasms again, and he crashes back to his previous position, his eyes watering as his throat goes into full contraction.  He heaves up mucous, then air.  Steve goes to rest his elbow on the seat, but it slips and he nearly face-plants on the edge of the bowl.

 

“Oh, god,” he chokes.  Steve’s heart hammers.  His head swims.  Heavy darkness creeps into the corners of his vision, and he struggles to hold on to consciousness. 

 

“God,” he whispers again.  He swallows and presses his chapped lips together.  If he passes out on the bathroom floor…  If Bucky wakes in the morning and finds him like this…

 

“Buck?” Steve calls weakly, his voice echoing off the porcelain and the tile floor.  “I need…  Can you…?”

 

A rustling comes from the direction of the bed, and relief floods Steve’s chest.  Then the sound cuts out, and there’s nothing. 

 

The hope evaporates.  Steve’s stomach squeezes toward his throat.

 

“Stevie?  What’s wrong?”  Bucky’s voice is thick with sleep, and he flops down gracelessly at Steve’s side.  “What’d’ya need?”

 

Steve’s too relieved to care.  He barely has the breath to whisper, “Just…just you.”


	17. Shuri breaks down post-Infinity War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pantherverse (also missing moments, I suppose)

Shuri doesn’t want to sit, so she stands behind her chair.  Her computer senses the motion, reads her face, and wakes up the monitor.  The last program used is open, flashing an error message:  Viz-kon: upload failed.  Shuri blinks as she re-reads the file name.  It doesn’t seem so funny anymore.  

She doesn’t feel like anything anymore.  Twelve hours ago, writing this program was the most important thing in the world, hell, the most important thing in the universe.  Now it’s just a flashing red light on her screen, worth about as much as the almost-empty coke can beside her keyboard.  Shuri picks it up automatically.  There’s little more than a sip left, and she swallows it by rote, wincing as the flat soda runs over her tongue, leaving her teeth aching.  

T’Challa had laughed at her for asking him to import soft drinks.  “We cannot all drink tea,” she’d said, and he’d given in in the end.  

A sob tears up Shuri’s throat.  It tastes sickly sweet and sends her hand up over her mouth.  She looks down at the can until it’s just a red blur like the error message.

Shuri doesn’t want to cry, but she does anyway.


	18. Bucky helps Shuri in the lab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing Moments. Also Pantherverse. And actually not a sickfic, for once.

“You’re going to be my assistant today,” Shuri says, beaming, as she leads Bucky into the lab.  She holds his hand in both of hers and walks backwards through the sliding doors.  

“Here.”  She points at the comfortable swivel chair in front of a bank of monitors.  “This is where the co-pilot sits.”

Bucky blinks.  “We’re…flying?”

“No, I mean, this is where you sit.  We can fly, but the rig for driving and flying remotely is in the other room.”

“Oh.”  Bucky nods once and pretends to understand.  He shouldn’t be surprised anymore, but the scale of technology here is still beyond his comprehension.  And the fact that the excitable young woman beside him is behind most of it…that shouldn’t surprise him either.

“Sit,” Shuri encourages.  She pulls her chair up beside Bucky’s and wakes her computers.  “I have a project in the works for you,” Shuri says.  “But first…”  She scrolls through several folders and windows and brings up a slew of sketches.  Bucky recognizes T’Challa’s panther suit.

“He always wants purple accents,” Shuri says, zooming in to show the fine detailing around the eyes on the mask.  “It’s his favorite color.”  She rolls her eyes.  “And he never lets me update it.”

Shuri taps a few icons on the touch screen, and the coloration changes to royal blue and gold.  “But I like this better.”  She turns to Bucky.  “What do you think?”

Bucky considers it for a moment.  He nods slowly.  “I like it.”


	19. Tony's sick after sampling his birthday cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon ships and all that jazz, also heroverse

When Tony descends through the skylight and lands on the platform in the middle of the lab, he has to do a double-take.  He’s pretty sure there wasn’t a banner hanging from the ceiling when he left.  But he wouldn’t put it past himself to have missed it, so he asks, just to be sure.  

“Hey, FRIDAY, when did that show up?”  He gestures upward as the bots start crowding around to remove his armor.  He uses the sleeve of his t-shirt to wipe sweat from his brow.

Tony’s surprised when a human voice answers.  “About 10 minutes after you left,” Clint says, stepping out from behind a shelf of spare parts.  “Happy Birthday, man.”

“Hey, I stopped having birthday parties after the great disaster of 2010…”  He trails off as Nat and Pepper wheel a cart laden with a huge home-baked cake through the door.

“That’s why this isn’t a party,” Pepper says.  

“Oh.”  Tony says, taking a breath and stepping down from the platform.  He’s a little lightheaded now that he’s free from the weight of the suit.  Probably dehydrated from the flight, he thinks.  “Yeah, cause this doesn’t look like a party at all.”

“I baked the cake,” Clint brags.  “Laura does the baking for parties, so we’re good.”

“Yeah, he made sure to burn it, too,” Nat snickers.  “Just to keep things casual.”

“Hm, nice,” Tony says absently.  

“Here.”  Pepper cuts a slice and holds it out to Tony on a paper plate.  

“Ok, you know I don’t like being handed things.”  Tony puts his hands up.  “Any chance of a glass of water?  I’m kind of feeling that instead.”

“Come on.  It’s your birthday.”  Pepper smiles and continues to offer the cake.  “Humor me.”  She raises her brows at him.

“Ok, fine.”  Tony takes the plate and cuts off a chunk with the plastic fork.  True to Nat’s word, it’s a little burnt, and sticky with frosting.  Tony shoves the bite into his mouth, chews twice, and tries to swallow.  The cake forms a lump in his throat, though, and the sweetness doubles his headache.  He barely manages to get it down, and the singed taste remains on his tongue. “You got my water?” he asks Pepper, trying not to cough.

“No, you’ll have to go upstairs for that.” Pepper says.  “I think you have something to say to your friends first.”

“What, like thank y—” Tony gags suddenly and presses his fist over his mouth.  He stumbles into the lab bathroom and bends double over the toilet.

“Oh my god, are you ok?” Pepper says, running after him.

“F-fine,” Tony stutters.  

“Ok, take it easy.”  Pepper pats him on the back.  “But if I didn’t know better, I’d say this is starting to look like what happens to you after a party.”


	20. Steve takes a hard hit on a mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heroverse

“Look out!”  Bucky yells to Steve, leaping toward him as the missile flies toward his head.  Steve’s eyes flick from Bucky to the projectile, and he brings his shield up to cover his head just as Bucky shoves him to the ground.  

The bomb overshoots them and hits a building on the other side of the street, but nothing comes between Steve’s head and the concrete.  Bucky winces as he hears the crack.

“You ok?” he asks, scrambling up to his knees to give Steve a proper once-over.  

Steve groans.  “Yeah.  I’m fine.”  He pushes himself onto his side, then up on his elbow.  He sounds like the wind’s been knocked out of him.

“Hey, take it slow.  You hit the ground pretty hard,” Bucky cautions, hovering his hand at Steve’s shoulder.

“I’m fine.  It takes more than that to keep me down.”  Steve gets his feet under him in a squat, then straightens up.  He barely gets to his full height when he sways, instinctively reaching out for something to break the inevitable fall.

“Whoa, easy.”  Bucky grabs Steve under the elbow and steadies him, then pushes him back toward the pavement.  “Sit down, ok?”  

“I’m ok,” Steve murmurs.  “Just…dizzy.”

“Yeah, I can see,” Bucky says, biting back a laugh.  “Trust me on this, take a minute to get your balance back.”

“I’m…”  Steve starts to protest again, but Bucky settles him on the sidewalk and guides his head down between his knees. “Yeah…ok.”


	21. Clint's sick and has to call Nat for backup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon ships and all that jazz

When Laura’s sister called and said she was in labor, Clint told her to go.  

“It might be hours before she has the baby,” Laura had said.  “Are you sure you’ll be ok?”  

“You’re talking like I don’t know how to care for these monsters,” Clint grinned, bouncing Nathaniel on his knee.  Lila and Cooper had been building a train track, quietly for once.  “We’ll be fine.”

“Ok.  But call me if you need me.”  Laura had kissed him and hurried out the door.

Clint hadn’t factored in the possibility of a blinding migraine hitting ten minutes after his wife had walked out the door.

“What’s wrong with you, daddy?”  Lila asks from the doorway of the bathroom.

“Just a headache,” Clint says, spitting bile into the toilet and trying not to gag again at the taste.  

Nathaniel starts crying from his playpen in the living room, and Clint winces as the noise sends an arrow into his temple.

“Should I call 911?” Lila offers loudly.

“No, no, don’t do that,” Clint chokes.  “Just, um.  Can your brother hold the baby?  Maybe check his diaper…”  He tries to concentrate on giving instructions, but he can barely coordinate his words through the haze of pain and nausea.  

“He’s playing basketball outside.”

“What?  When did I say he could do that?”  Clint breaks off with another gag.

“You didn’t.”

“Shit,” Clint hiccups.

“You said a bad word,” Lila informs him.

He struggles not to say fuck.  

“Are you gonna go get Nate?  He’s crying really loud.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Clint groans, pushing himself up with is elbow braced against the toilet seat.  “I can…I can hear him…”  He breathes through urge to heave.  As much as he wants to, he knows he’s not getting up any time soon.  “You still feel like making a phone call, baby?”

“Can I call mommy?” Lila asks.

“No, mommy’s busy,” Clint says.  “How about Anuntie Nat?  You know her number?”

“We have speed dial,” Lila says, rolling her eyes.  

Ordinarily, Clint would call her out for the attitude, but today he’s just grateful.  


	22. T'Challa's cold interferes with his kingly duties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pantherverse

“I’ve had enough of this,” Okoye says, bustling into the room and grabbing T’Challa by the shoulder.  “I’m calling an intervention.”

“I’m nearly finished,” T’Challa protests, gesturing at the report pulled up on his tablet.  “I just need to review this.  It won’t take much longer.”  He grabs a crumpled tissue from his desk and dabs at his dripping nose.  

“No, you’re finished now.”  Okoye closes the document on the screen and adopts a serious expression.  “You aren’t well.  I’m not listening to you cough from outside the door any longer.  You need to rest.”

“I’m fine.”  T’Challa reaches for the tablet, but Okoye holds it out of his reach.  “The ministers of agriculture are expecting that document today.  I need to finish it.”

“They won’t mind waiting until morning.  If you don’t take time to heal, your cold will only get worse.”  She slides the box of tissues across the desk as T’Challa coughs wetly.  “I’m sure your sister could remedy that death rattle if you’d just walk downstairs and let her.”

“I will, I promise,” T’Challa says, holding a tissue over his mouth.  “But I cannot neglect my duties…”

“Your duty is to be here for your people.  And if you keel over from your own stubbornness, then you will be neglectful.”  Okoye pulls T’Challa’s chair back from his desk and gestures toward the door.  “Please.  My king?”

T’Challa sighs.  “Alright.”  He gets to his feet.  “But be prepared to explain when the ministers of agriculture come knocking on the door.”

Okoye hefts her spear.  “Oh, I will be,” she says with a smile.


	23. Loki's panic makes him sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing Moments, an expansion on the last Loki chapter

“We’ll find refuge on Earth,” Thor says, gesturing out the ship’s portal to a blue and green speck in the distance.  “Not all places are open to refugees, but I know a few people with influence.  We will have a place to call home.”

“I’m not sure you understand the danger, brother,” Loki says, his jaw beginning to tremble with anxiety.  “This ship is too exposed.  There are forces after me, people with power you’ve only dreamed of.”

“And I’m not sure you understand me,” Thor rebuts.  “I’m going to protect us.”

“But—”  Loki starts, though a tightness in his throat keeps him from getting any more words out.  Nausea blooms from his stomach and he clenches his teeth.

“Loki?”  Thor reaches for his arm, but Loki turns away, barely getting his hand over his mouth before he heaves.  Sick drips between his fingers and onto the floor.

“Brother?  What ails you?”

Loki gags again.  “Get away from me,” he hisses.  “I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking,” Thor whispers.  “What is the matter?  How can I aid you?”

“It’s nothing,” Loki coughs.  “We’re all nothing.”

“No,” Thor says, sidestepping Loki’s weak swat and clapping him on the shoulder.  “I care for you, whether you like it or not.  And it takes more than a bout of sickness to scare me away.”

Loki doesn’t want to open his mouth to respond. But when Thor steers him toward the bathroom, he doesn’t resist.


	24. T'Challa's sick and embarrasses Shuri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pantherverse

The council meeting seems to have been going on for hours.  Each minute feels longer as T’Challa feels the sweat beading on his forehead.  It’s much warmer than it should be in the room.  He rests his elbow on the table in front of him and drops his chin into his palm.

Shuri kicks him under the table.  “You’re not supposed to do that,” she hisses at him.

“I’m sorry,” T’Challa mutters, straightening up.  

Shuri looks at him out of the corner of her eye.  “What is wrong with you?  You’re usually the one who pays attention during these boring government forums.”

“I…” T’Challa starts, but he has to stifle a burp.

This time Shuri turns to face him.  “You’re sick, aren’t you?” she asks in a loud whisper.

“Don’t say it so loudly…”  T’Challa swallows down the bitter taste of bile and tries to refocus on the speaker at the front of the room.  

“What, are you going to–?”

T’Challa gags before she has a chance to finish her sentence.  Another sick burp comes up, and he vomits into his lap, sending the room into stunned silence.  

“Now everyone is looking at us,” Shuri complains.  “Couldn’t you have left the room first?”

“…Sorry.”  T’Challa struggles to his feet.  “I’ll try harder next time.”


	25. Shuri's overheated and sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pantherverse

Shuri’s been gleefully showing off her upgraded arm cannons to her brother and Okoye when suddenly the cloudless sky tips and the ground comes rushing up to meet her.  T’Challa’s hands are immediately on her shoulders, pushing her up to sit with her head between her knees.

“Shuri?  Are you alright?  What happened?” T’Challa asks.

“I’m alright,” Shuri tries to protest.  “I just…got dizzy.”  The vertigo is already fading, but nausea is rising in its place.  Sweat trickles down the back of Shuri’s neck.

Okoye stoops to pull the arm canons off Shuri’s hands.  “It’s too hot out to be doing this.  You should go inside and rest.”

“I’m fine—”  Shuri says again, but the urge to gag rises.  Her stomach clenches, and she dry heaves.

“Okoye is right.”  T’Challa slips one arm under Shuri’s knees and the other behind her back.  “You need to go home and rest.”  He lifts her off the ground.

“No, no, put me down,” Shuri whines, swallowing hard.  “Or I’ll be sick on you.”

“No, you won’t,” T’Challa says.  “Take a deep breath.”  He starts to carry her back toward the palace.  “And even if you did, I’ve seen much worse.”

Shuri would roll her eyes if she wasn’t sure the motion would increase her queasiness tenfold.  “Of course you have…”


	26. Sargent Pepper comforts T'Challa's lonely heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pantherverse

He’s been lying in bed for close to three hours, and T’Challa’s no closer to sleep.  He rolls from his side to his back and crosses his arms over his stomach, wishing the churning in his gut would dissipate so he can rest.  He’s still exhausted from travelling, though he’s been stateside for days now.  And if he’s honest, he wishes he was back home.

The Avengers compound is beautiful.  It’s comfortable.  Everyone’s been welcoming.  But as he lies in bed trying to think about anything but the urge to vomit, T’Challa yearns for more familiar surroundings.

A burp seeps up his throat, and he sits up, pressing his hand over his mouth just in case.  His stomach protests the movement, but he only brings up air and a sour taste.  T’Challa sighs.  It’s just going to get worse from here.

He slips out of bed and tiptoes down the hall toward the bathroom.  He’s been briefed on the amenities, so T’Challa knows the cabinets are fully stocked.  He hopes he can choke down a couple antacids and go back to bed before he gets sicker.  Or sadder.

T’Challa’s so absorbed that he doesn’t notice the shadowy figure already standing in front of the medicine cabinet until he almost runs into her.

“My sincere apologies,” T’Challa says.  “I did not see you.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Pepper says, putting her hand on his arm.  “I guess I was a little…lost in my thoughts.”

“So you could not sleep either.  Are you alright?”  T’Challa swallows another belch.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine.  I just do this sometimes.”  She gestures at the neat rows of bottles and boxes lined up on the shelves. “Rearrange.  It’s like Feng Shui.  Or Tetris…  Do you have that in Wakanda?”  She shifts a couple bottles of ibuprofen.  “I’m sorry.  Was that insensitive?”

“It’s perfectly fine,” T’Challa says, smiling in spite of himself.  “I’m personally very bad at that game, but I think my sister quite enjoys it.”  Just thinking about Shuri makes his heart ache a little.  Or maybe it’s the pain in his stomach moving into his chest.

Pepper grins back.  “You get along with her really well, don’t you?”

“It’s a typical sibling relationship.  Plenty of rivalry,” T’Challa says.  “But yes.  We do.”

“You miss her?”

“I…yes,” T’Challa admits.  Then he swallows quickly to push down the lump in his throat.

“Are you ok?” Pepper asks.  “You probably came in here to get something, and I’m in your way.”

“I’m fine,” T’Challa assures her.  “My stomach is a bit…unwell, is all.”

“Oh, well here you go.”  Pepper grabs a tall bottle of chalky tablets from the back of the cabinet.  The label is different, but otherwise it looks like what he’s used to.  “Or do you want something stronger?”

T’Challa opens the bottle and shakes out two tablets.  “No,” he says.  “This is what I was after.”  He throws them into his mouth, and the familiar fake-fruit taste washes over his tongue.

“Thank you,” he says, trying to hand the bottle back.

“Why don’t you take it?” Pepper offers.  “We have more in here.”

T’Challa presses the grooved bottle between his palms.  “That’s very kind of you.  Goodnight, Miss Potts.”

“Goodnight.”

T’Challa heads back to his room, confident that he’ll be able to sleep soon.


	27. Tony feels the effects of palladium poisoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing moments

Tony pauses before buttoning up his dress shirt.  The arc reactor glows blue through his undershirt, and in the darkened bathroom, it casts his face a sickly shade of pale.  It’s not so far off from his usual coloring these days.  He sighs and tries to look away from his reflection.  But it’s tough going to break his own eye contact.  He looks terrible.

He feels terrible.  Tony grabs his toothbrush, hoping to get rid of the taste of chlorophyll and stomach acid and rusty metal.  He can still smell it, too.  It makes his head ache, but he’s afraid if he swallows a handful of ibuprofen, it’ll just send him back to heaving over the toilet.

He spits into the sink, ignoring the blood streaking the minty white foam.  Tony wonders if Listerine would help or hurt at this point.  Probably hurt, but the sting might be worth it, especially if he swallows.  He’d kill for a whiskey buzz right about now.  But he comes full circle, mentally relives the vomiting spell from an hour ago, and decides he’s never eating or drinking again.

“It’s a goddamn hour,” Tony mutters, spraying cologne at his throat and fixing his collar.  “Five fucking minutes on stage.  Get over it.”

“That’s a wonderful pep talk, sir,” JARVIS says.

Tony starts.  “God, I thought I muted you,” he mutters.

“Miss Potts is approaching.  You are scheduled to leave for the Expo in five minutes.”

“Noted,” Tony says.  He takes in a deep breath, pleased when he smells more Gucci than smoking palladium.  “I’m on my way.”


	28. T'Challa's emotionally done after a bad mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pantherverse

T’Challa’s knees shake as he disembarks from the jet.  He wants nothing more than to take a hot shower and fall into bed.  It doesn’t matter that it’s four in the afternoon.  He’s ready to close the book on today.

“That’s…not how things usually go,” Steve had said when they’d stood before the burning building, surveying the damage from the bomb blast.  “But there are always times when, you know.  We just aren’t fast enough.”

T’Challa had adjusted his mask and started shifting rubble.  He’d shouted for survivors until his throat started to burn with smoke and unshed tears.  He’d spent the flight back stateside with his arms folded as a lump had formed in his chest.  Now as he crosses the hangar, he’s not sure if he feels sick or just sad.

T’Challa presses the button to call the elevator, swallowing the sour taste collecting on his tongue.  His mask filters out most impurities, but he doesn’t want to think about what kinds of things were vaporized in the attack and now sit as dust in his lungs. T’Challa coughs anyway, and it makes his head ache and his stomach turn.

The elevator doors slide open, but T’Challa lunges for the trash can instead.  He’s empty and dehydrated, but he gags hard, cringing at the bitter bile that comes up.

Someone pats him on the back.  T’Challa wants to swat them away, but his hands are wrapped so tightly around the rim of the bin that even the effort to unclench them is too much.  Sweat trickles down from his temple, and it joins a tear leaking from the corner of his eye.

T’Challa retches again, then spits to clear his mouth.

“You ok?”  It’s Steve.

“Yes,” T’Challa chokes.  “I…I am fine.”  He straightens up and wipes his lips on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to be.”  Steve’s expression is blank, but there’s kindness in his eyes.  Concern furrows his brow.  It makes him look tired.  T’Challa imagines he looks the same.  Maybe a bit worse for wear.

“I…I know,” T’Challa sighs.  “I just…like you said earlier.  That was not how I wanted today to go.”

“Yeah.  Me either.”  Steve claps him gently on the shoulder.  He nods toward the elevator, still hovering with the doors open.  “You feel up to getting in this contraption?”

T’Challa swallows and winces.  “I think so.”

“Good.”  Steve steers him inside and pushes the button for their floor.  “Some water.  Some sleep.  Maybe some food,” he says.  “You’ll feel better.”

T’Challa nods weakly.  “Yes.”

“But it’s ok to feel bad for a while.  It means you have a heart.”

T’Challa almost chuckles, though it’s not funny.  “I suppose you’re right, Captain Rogers.”  He sighs.  "I suppose you’re right.“


	29. Shuri calls T'Challa for help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pantherverse

It started off as an afternoon sketching out plans for a new upgrade to T’Challa’s suit.  Shuri has found a shady corner of the courtyard and stretched out on her stomach, propped on her elbows, with her tablet and stylus.  Before he knew it, the morning had lapsed into afternoon, and the sun beat down on the back of her head.  When pink and orange begin to streak the clouds, she’d hastily saves her design and scrambles to her feet.  She knows how her mother felt about being late for dinner.

As soon as she makes it upright, though, vertigo assaults her and knocks her back to her knees.  Nausea bubbles up from her empty stomach, and she can barely keep from retching into the grass.  Whether it’s exhaustion or dehydration or too much sun, she isn’t sure.  She knows she needs to get inside, though.  And she knows she’s not getting back to her feet under her own power.

Shuri shakily raises her wrist and twists a kimoyo bead off her bracelet.  “T’Challa?” she asks weakly.  “I’m fine, nothing’s wrong, I just…could you come outside for a moment…?”


	30. Tony has a concussion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spiderverse

 

 

Tony knows his head hit the ground a little too hard. To be precise, his head hit the inside of his helmet, which in turn hit the ground, but he’s not in the position to be precise. FRIDAY’s voice is droning on about something, but Tony doesn’t want to hear it.

 

“Mute,” he mutters before retracting his mask and sitting down heavily in the nearest seat. The jet shudders to life, rattling in place before it takes off in a smooth motion. It’s only then Tony realizes the seat is rear-facing. He doesn’t want to move. But he also doesn’t want to puke. He settles for closing his eyes and tipping his head back against the headrest.

 

***

 

“Mr. Stark?” Peter climbs up into the seat beside Tony and sits on his knees. He taps Tony’s metal-clad shoulder. “You ok, Mr. Stark?”

 

“What?” Tony starts awake. He gives his head a little shake, then blinks a couple times. His throat appears to work as he mutters, “Geez, kid, whadaya want?”

 

Peter stares back at him. One of Tony’s pupils is bigger than the other, and it doesn’t suit him. The hairs on the back of Peter’s neck stand up, and he fights a shiver. “Whoa.”

 

“What? I was…I was taking a nap…” Tony says. He seems to realize that he’s slurring, and he swallows hard, then lets out his breath. He rubs his eyebrow with the heel of his hand, then drifts his eyes shut again.

 

The sense of foreboding returns, and Peter grabs Tony’s forearm. “No, stay awake,” he says. “You, uh, didn’t happen to hit your head, did you?”

 

“Wha?” Tony looks confused. “When?”

 

“Just now, when we were…” he nods out the window.

 

“Oh. Huh.” It’s not the sound of comprehension. Tony swallows heavily again.

 

Peter watches his Adam’s apple bob, then asks, “Do you, uh, feel ok? You look like you’re gonna—” He cuts off when Tony lurches forward and gags into his lap.

 

“Oh shit,” Peter whispers, pushing Tony forward to vomit onto the floor instead of the seat.

 

***

 

The kid’s voice is just a buzz in Tony’s ears, and the rising nausea makes it difficult to focus on anything else. He almost doesn’t feel himself gagging until a sour taste fills his mouth and someone pushes him forward in his seat.

 

“It’s ok, Mr. Stark,” Peter’s borderline-panicked voice murmurs in his ear.

 

“Yeah,” Tony tries to murmur. “I’m fine.” It comes out as a groan, though, and he can barely keep from aspirating his own vomit as he’s sick again.

 

“Hey, hey, hold up,” the kid says, thumping Tony on the back. It makes his head swim, and he’d tell Peter to cut it out if he had the breath to spare. “Don’t choke, it’s ok.”

 

“I’m fine,” Tony manages to groan. “Stop.”

 

“I don’t think you are,” Peter replies, putting his arm around Tony’s shoulders to hold him up. “Something’s really wrong.” He turns to the rest of the jet and asks at large, “Does anyone know what to do? I don’t know what to do anymore.”

 

***

 

Nat had been keeping her distance, but when Peter calls out for help, she stops pretending to give them privacy. She swoops in on Tony’s other side and says, “Yeah, I saw him hit the ground.” She gazes into Tony’s unfocused eyes. “That’s a concussion if I’ve ever seen one.”

 

“Like, for real?” Peter asks, fear imbuing his voice. “I’ve never seen someone else have one.”

 

“Usually they’re no big deal,” Nat says, fumbling in her bag for a water bottle. “But you never can be too careful.” She cracks the seal and pours some over a hand towel. “Here.” She gives it to Peter. “Put it over the back of his neck.”

 

“How is that gonna help?” The kid looks at her, slightly bewildered.

 

“Just keep him comfortable until we get home. Then a doctor can check him over.”

 

Peter continues to stare at Nat.

 

“And it’ll give you something to do to feel useful.” She breaks into a grin.

 

“Oh.” The kid gives a sheepish smile.

 

“He’s gonna be ok,” Nat assures him.

 

“Yeah, like I said, I’m fine,” Tony slurs.

 

“Not quite,” Nat corrects him. “But you will be. We’re gonna help you .”


	31. Nat has a concussion before Steve takes her to Sam's house

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing moments. A bit from CA: TWS where Natasha has a concussion after the bunker explodes.

The first thing Steve does is make a path through the rubble.  He glances over his shoulder every few seconds to see if Nat’s stirred.  She hasn’t.  Steve ignores the worry at the pit of his stomach and keeps shifting.  

Once he can see light through the chunks of concrete, he slips his arm under Nat’s knees and eases her head against his shoulder.  “Ok,” he whispers, trying not to breathe in the dust hanging in the air.  “We’re getting out of here.”

Steve knows they need to stay under the radar, but his first priority is Nat.  She’s groaning quietly now, but she hasn’t opened her eyes.  Steve jogs behind the old mess hall and sinks to his knees, cradling Nat as he scans the skies for threats and tries to catch his breath.

“What…?  What happened?”  Steve’s almost startled he hears her voice.  Nat coughs and squirms in his arms.  

“You’re awake.  Good.”  Steve helps Nat lean against the building’s cinderblock wall.  “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m…” Nat trails off.  “I remember Zola… and then I’m not sure.”  She looks at Steve with unfocused eyes.  

“Yeah, he basically said Hydra never died.  What they were back during the war was only the beginning.”  

“Oh.”  Nat digs the heel of her hand into her eye socket.  “Then, I guess we…”  She pauses to swallow.  “Have our work cut out for us.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs.  He puts his hand on Nat’s knee.  “Are you sure you’re ok, though?  You were unconscious.”

“Stop worrying about me,” Nat insists.  “I’m fine—”  But as soon as she says the words, her face goes ashen and she leans to the side to gag into the sparse grass.

“Ok,” Steve soothes, gripping her shoulder so she doesn’t topple over.  “I was afraid of that.”

Nat vomits again, then straightens up, dragging her sleeve over her mouth.  “Afraid of what?”

“You did get hurt.  You hit your head.  You  might have a concussion.”

“I do not.”  Nat coughs breathily and holds her hand against her lips.

“You’re nauseous.  You’re confused.”  Steve raises his eyebrows and offers a concerned smile.

“I’m not confused.”  Nat lowers her hand.

“But you  _are_ nauseous.”

Nat doesn’t turn away to dry heave.   Her hair falls across her face in an auburn curtain that hides her expression from Steve.  He opens his mouth to ask her if she’s alright, but Nat hisses, “Don’t.”

Steve gives her another sad smile.  “Ok.  But I’m worried.”

“I said don’t.  Don’t worry.”  Nat sweeps her hair behind her ear.  She clenches her hand into a fist and drops it to her lap, but not before Steve sees her trembling.  He decides not to say anything.

“God, I can’t believe it.  Fucking Hydra.”

“Yeah.  But let’s worry about them later,” Steve says.  “We need to regroup first.  Maybe get some rest.”  He wants to say and medical attention, but he doesn’t want to upset her.

“I don’t need rest,” Nat says, pushing herself off the wall and proving Steve’s point.

“Maybe I do,” Steve comes back.

Nat narrows her eyes.  “No, you don’t.”

Steve shrugs.  “We need cover regardless.  I think I know where we can go.”  He tucks his toes and rolls back onto his feet.  “Do you feel up to travelling?”

“Is that even a question?”  But Nat reaches upward with both hands, allowing Steve to pull her to her feet.

 

 


	32. Bucky's upset after he and Steve have an arguement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Powers/No Powers. I really like this one!!

“Hey.”  Steve sticks one hand into the back pocket of Bucky’s jeans and pulls him back from the sink where he’s rinsing plates.  “I’ll do that.  Why don’t you go sit down?”  He nods toward the table where Clint, Laura, and Nat are seated, enjoying coffee and cake.

“I got it,” Bucky says.  He bends to open the dishwasher.

“Or leave it till later.  We can wash up after they leave.”

“Steve, I got it.”

“Oh.”  Steve slips his hand out.  “I didn’t mean that you don’t have it.  I just…you should relax.  Enjoy the company.”

Bucky shuts off the water.  “I should relax?”  He looks at Steve over his shoulder.

Steve nods.  Then shrugs.  “Or keep washing.”

“Or keep washing…” Bucky repeats.  He scoffs and shakes his head.

“What’s up, Buck?”  Steve puts his hand on Bucky’s stump shoulder, and Bucky tenses.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Sit down with our friends.  Leave this till later,” Steve says.  “Or if you need some space—”

“Goddammit, Steve.”  Bucky brushes him off.  He pretends not to hear the beat of silence from the table.  “That’s what you always want.  You never want me to do anything!”

“Buck, that’s not true,” Steve rebuts.

“You try to do everything for me.”

“I’m trying to help you.  I never want you to feel bad about it.”

“Well, I do, Steve.  I don’t want your help!”  Bucky snatches the dish towel off the counter.

“Ok.  I’ll back off.”  Steve raises his hands.  “Just take a breath, ok?”

“Fuck,” Bucky hisses, he wads the towel in his fist.  “Stop telling me what to do.”

“Buck—“

“Just leave me alone.”  He crosses the kitchen and starts up the stairs.  When Bucky gets to the bedroom, he slams the door, then sinks onto the bed.  

“Shit,” he mutters.  His head throbs.  He still has the dish cloth in his hand, and Bucky presses it over his eyes as the angry tears begin to fall.  

He knows Steve’s heart is in the right place.  He doesn’t mean to hurt Bucky or make him angry, and usually he doesn’t.  But there are times like this, more and more of them, when Bucky’s tired of it.  He’s not sure if it’s him talking, or his TBI, or some errant whim of brain chemistry when he wants to tell Steve to go fuck himself.  

Bucky bows forward with his elbow on his knee.  He can still feel Steve’s touch ghosting against his shoulder.  His teeth chatter with a new wave of sickening emotion.  

Eventually the door creaks open.  Bucky doesn’t look up, not even when the mattress dips as Steve comes to sit beside him.  He doesn’t know what to say.  Bucky feels like he ought to apologize for his behavior, but he’s tired.  He doesn’t know if it’ll repair the damage.  And he’s not sure how much he cares.

Bucky hears Steve exhale slowly, then his arm slips around Bucky’s shoulders.  His hand caresses the back of Bucky’s neck on its way around to his stump shoulder.  Steve’s other arm crosses Bucky’s chest.  He cups Bucky’s cheek and sighs again.

Bucky feels the fight go out of him.  His body feels heavy.  The dish towel falls to his lap, and he slackens toward Steve’s chest.  He sniffles as the tears keep falling, running down his face into his stubble with nothing to stem them.

Steve stays silent.  He doesn’t shush Bucky or offer any soothing words.  His chest rises and falls slowly, and he stays there holding him until Bucky’s does too.


	33. Natasha's affected after her Scarlet Witch vision in Age of Ultron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing moments/rewritten scene

When the hazy redness of the vision fades, Nat’s aware of two things.  The first is that she isn’t quite sure where she is.  The air seems to hold leftover colors and textures that belong in a time and place other than this one.  It’s unsettling, and it exacerbates the second thing, which is that she’s about to fall on her ass.

 

Nat shakes her head to clear it as she backs into the wall.  She runs her trembling fingers over the gun on her belt.  She could’ve sworn it was just in her hand. 

 

“Nat.  Hey.  You ok?”

 

She blinks, and Clint’s in front of her, steadying her shoulder and cupping her cheek. 

 

“Uh…” Nat starts.  She blinks woozily, fighting vertigo to focus on his face.

 

“You’re safe, alright? I’m gonna get you out of here.”  Clint slips his arm behind Nat’s shoulders and peels her away from the wall. “What did she do to you anyway?”

 

“I…um…”  Nat stumbles, and her vision jumps.  A swooping sensation rushes through her stomach, and the next thing she knows she’s clinging to Clint’s arm and gagging over the dusty floor.

 

“Hey, take it easy.”  Clint pats her on the back.  “I’m getting us out of here, ok?  All you gotta do is stay on your feet.”

 

Nat nods.  She understands.  But then she heaves again and breaks off coughing.  She drags the back of her hand across her mouth.  “Don’t even think about carrying me,” Nat spits. 

 

“Ok, ok,” Clint says with a laugh.  He tightens his arm around her and grips her elbow with his free hand.  “We gotta go, though.

 

Nat forces her feet to move one in front of the other. 

 

“What did she do to you?” Clint asks. 

 

“I don’t know.”  Nat struggles to put it into words.  “I saw…old stuff?”  Remembering makes her head hurt, both from the strain and the content of her memories. 

 

“Like, before my time stuff?”

 

“Mm.  Yeah.”  Nausea rises in Nat’s throat again, but she breathes in deeply and swallows it. 

 

“You’re doing good,” Clint says.  “Laura and the kids’ll patch you up and you’ll be fine.”

 

“Hm.  That’s where we’re going?”

 

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.”  The jet’s in view now, and Clint pulls her along a little quicker.  “Unless you got any better ideas.”

 

Nat slowly shakes her head.  “No.  That’d be fine with me.”


	34. Thor faints on the Milano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing moments/rewritten scene

“No, no, wait,” the petite creature says, putting her hand on his elbow.  “You must not get up yet.”

“Don’t stay me,” Thor groans.  He’s unsure whether she’s a friend or enemy, though the fact that she doesn’t seem to be attacking seems to indicate something.  He swings his legs off the table and staggers to his feet.

“But it’s unwise for you to be up.  You have been terribly injured.”

“I’m fine.”  Thor keeps one hand on the table.  He doesn’t like how much his knees are trembling.

“You are not fine!”  The creature points at him and adopts a stern expression.  “I have examined your feelings.  You are in pain.”

“You…what?”  Even if the creature is friendly, Thor feels violated.  He draws himself up to his full height.  “How dare you.”

The creature cowers and takes a step back.  “I apologize for upsetting you,” she says quietly, her large eyes glistening.  “But I see you are suffering.  Both mentally and physically.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” Thor says.  He grits his teeth and lets go of the table.  He glances around and asks, “Who are you?  Where am I?”

“I am Mantis,” the creature murmurs.  She holds out her hand.  “Do you partake in this greeting?”

Thor blinks.  His thoughts are suddenly sluggish.  It’s too warm, and his armor feels too tight around his neck.  He extends his arm automatically.  “I’m…” he starts, but the words die in his mouth.  The room tips, and a swooping sensation rises from the pit of his stomach, then everything goes black.

***

A small hand is on his forehead.  “Wake.”

Thor’s eye flutters open.  Mantis is bent over him, her face upside-down.  “What?” he croaks.

“You have fainted.”  Mantis giggles.

Thor groans and curses under his breath.

“You should have listened to me when I told you it was unwise to move.  I see you are very stubborn and disobedient.”  She laughs again.

“Right,” Thor brushes his hair off his sweaty forehead.  “I suppose…you are correct.”  He tries to push himself up on his arms, but dizziness assaults him again, and he carefully lowers back to the floor.

“Perhaps you will believe me now?”  Mantis cocks her head and smiles.

Thor sighs.  “Fine.”


	35. Loki is motion sick on the helicarrier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> missing moments (Avengers)

Loki backs into the wall, keeping his eyes trained straight ahead.  If he lets himself look down, he’ll set off a chain reaction he’d rather avoid.  He’s not afraid of heights, but vertigo already has his brain crashing inside his skull and his stomach inching up his throat.

He breathes in and out slowly through his nose and wraps his arms around his stomach.  Loki sinks into a crouch, swallowing nausea.  If he imagines the helicarrier isn’t moving, perhaps he can force his body to believe it.

The thought is barely formed when the craft hits turbulence and Loki loses his balance.  His knees slam into the floor of the cube and a sour taste explodes into the back of his mouth.  His throat works frantically, but nothing goes down, and before he knows it, he’s on all fours gagging.

Loki curses under his breath and squeezes his eyes shut as he vomits.  It only serves to increase his dizziness, though, and he tries to train his eyes on something stationary.  He stares across the helicarrier at the control room, where he can make out a few figures watching him.  Loki curses again, then gives in to a dry heave.  He rakes his hand over his lips and pushes himself away from the mess on the floor.  He leans his head back against the glass wall and looks straight ahead again, wondering if things could possibly be any worse.


	36. Steve is sick on the floor and Bucky is surprisingly calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> powers/no powers

“I told you you shouldn’t’ve gone to work,” Bucky says, taking Steve’s backpack and pulling him toward the stairs.  “Come on.  You should lie down.”

“Hold up, Buck.”  Steve reaches for the railing with one hand and wraps his arm around his stomach.  

“What’s wrong?”

“I just…really don’t feel good,” Steve admits, his voice cracking as he swallows a gag.

“Do you need–?” Bucky starts to ask, but he doesn’t get to finish the question.  

Steve’s shoulders jerk forward as he retches.  Stomach acid and undigested breakfast hits the bottom step and the tile floor of the entryway.  “Oh, god,” Steve chokes.  “I’m…I’m really sorry.”

“Hey, it’s nothing,” Bucky says, snaking his arm around Steve’s waist to take his weight.  “How about the bathroom?”

Steve slowly nods and rakes his hand over his mouth.  “I’m just…god, I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.  One thing at a time, right?”

Steve nods again and lets Bucky steer him down the hall.


	37. Tony's shot and not hurt, but the panic is real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No 'verse. Consistent with the canon.

Tony watches the bullet glance of the metal encasing his shoulder.  His heart beats hard and fast as a mixture of fear and relief flood his brain.  He touches down from his hover and stumbles a couple steps around the corner into an alley.  

Sweat prickles on his upper lip, and he retracts his face plate, gulping down the cool evening air.  He braces himself against the wall and lets his head hang forward.  Every breath seems to be squeezing his stomach up into his chest.  A sour taste blooms on the back of his tongue, and Tony swallows hard, cringing.  

He’s fine.  There’s no reason to panic.  His suit did what it was built for.  He should feel smug, if anything.  But the thought doesn’t bring comfort.  

Tony forces himself to take a deep, slow breath.  His diaphragm trembles, and he can practically feel his ribcage vibrating against the armor of his suit.  He rests his forehead against the back of his metal-gloved hand and wills down the urge to gag.

Another gunshot rings out, this time two streets down.  Tony straightens up to listen.  He brings his mask back down over his face and takes off.


	38. Bucky comes home from therapy to find Steve laid up with a migraine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoa Bessie (AU-verse featuring veteran/amputee Bucky and trans Steve, not that either of those things actually factor into the story)

When Bucky gets home from physical therapy, he’s surprised to see Steve’s car in the parking lot.  He stares at it as he climbs the steps to the building.  His movements go stealthy as he crosses the hall and unlocks the door.  “Steve?” he calls.

 

There’s no response.  Bucky tiptoes through the living room.  He hopes the loud thrumming of his heartbeat doesn’t give him away.  He’s reminded of the intelligence gathering he did in Afghanistan, but he quickly pushes the thought from his head.  This is no time for memories.  Finding Steve is his priority. 

 

The bedroom door is almost closed.  Bucky peers through the crack between the door and the frame, and he says Steve’s name again. 

 

“Hmph.”  It’s muffled, but it definitely sounds familiar.  Steve’s in a heap on the bed, curled into a fetal position with his head almost buried in his knees.  There’s a trash can on the floor, and the room smells faintly of sick.

 

Bucky moves slowly so the floorboards don’t creak.  “You ok, Stevie?” 

 

The answer is obviously no, but Bucky isn’t sure how else to ask.  Steve is so rarely ill these days, and Bucky isn’t sure how to reconcile what he sees with age-old memories he doesn’t quite trust.  Did this used to happen?  He thinks maybe it did. 

 

“Yeah, I’m good,” Steve mumbles.  His eyes are closed tightly, and lines of pain stand out around them.  “I’m just—”

 

Bucky perches on the edge of the mattress, and Steve’s voice dies in his throat.  “No, don’t,” he breathes, then he gags and lunges for the trash can. 

 

Bucky reaches for it and holds it under Steve’s chin as he retches.  It’s nothing more than spit and bile.  “Sorry,” Steve mutters as he breaks off, coughing.

 

“No, I…It’s my fault,” Bucky says, wondering if he should stand up or if that will just make things worse. 

 

“It’s ok.  You didn’t know.”

 

“I did, though,” Bucky says slowly.  “I do.”  Images piece together like a puzzle.  A younger, skinnier Steve with his head in Bucky’s lap, wiping away the tear tracks on his cheeks.  “At least, I think I do.”

 

“Haven’t had a migraine in years,” Steve groans.  “I should’ve given you a heads up…”

 

“What do you need me to do?” Bucky asks.  “Do you have medicine or something?”

 

Steve slowly shakes his head and swallows thickly.  “Naw, ‘s been too long.”  He reaches upward and closes his fist around Bucky’s wrist. “Just…come lay down.  I miss you.”

 

“I was only gone a couple hours…” Bucky says, confused as to whether or not to take Steve’s words literally.

 

“Shhh,” Steve shushes him.  “Just…come’ere.”

 

Bucky kicks off his shoes and inches up behind Steve, circling his arm loosely around his waist.  “Ok?” he asks.

 

“Mm-hm,” Steve breathes.  “Defintely…ok.”


	39. Steve comes home with a concussion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heroverse

Steve rubs his temple as he unlocks the front door and steps inside. His head throbs so badly he has to pause and get his bearings before bending over to unlace his boots. It probably would’ve been smarter to stay at SHIELD headquarters and let medical patch him up, but he’d told Nat he just needed to walk it off when the projectile had clocked him in the side of the head. It seems like bad form to go back on his word after the mission is over.

 

He just needs some rest. Maybe a handful of ibuprofen. Steve uses the coatrack to steady himself as he straightens up, blinking stars out of the edges of his vision. He can hear Bucky talking from the kitchen, along with the quiet murmur of Laura’s voice from the other end of the phone line. Steve smiles to himself, then tiptoes across the entryway toward the stairs.

 

He manages to hang his suit in the closest, but by the time Steve pulls a clean t-shirt over his head, his dizziness has morphed into downright nausea. He breathes deeply and swallows, staving it off long enough to step into his pajama pants. He can’t push it down forever, though, and he barely finishes tying the drawstring when sourness erupts over his tongue.

 

Steve sprints around the foot of the bed and slams his knees into the tile in front of the toilet. The impact seems to reverberate through his body and ratchet his vertigo to a new level. Steve’s spine arches as he vomits. His abdominal muscles begin to tremble, and the room dissolves into greyish fuzz in his peripheral vision.

 

Steve grips the edges of the toilet seat as tightly as he can and squeezes his eyes shut. Another huge, loud heave bursts from him. Steve cringes and spits to clear his mouth. His breath returns slowly, but the floor feels like it’s tipping side to side beneath him. Even getting to bed will be a challenge.

 

Steve hears footsteps on the stairs, and he quickly reaches up to flush the toilet. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to stand up, but at least he can get rid of the evidence. Bucky’s as protective of Steve as Steve is of him, and now doesn’t seem to be the best occasion for a lecture on personal safety. Steve sighs and rests his forehead against his arm.

 

“Stevie?” The door to the ensuite is open, but Bucky knocks on the frame. “What happened?”

 

“It’s nothing,” Steve says, doing his best to override his hoarseness. “I’m fine.”

 

“If you were fine, you wouldn’t be hugging the toilet, now, would you?” Bucky squats at Steve’s shoulder and drops a hand onto his back.

 

“Hm.” Steve can’t swallow the retch that tears up his throat. The bitter taste of bile makes his eyes water, and he holds the sides of his head with both hands to keep it from spinning on his neck.

 

“Ok,” Bucky soothes. “You got a headache or something?”

 

“Uh,” Steve starts. He’s embarrassed, and he doesn’t want Bucky to worry. But denying things will probably do more harm than good at this point. “I might’ve, uh…taken a hit.”

 

Bucky swats him lightly on the arm with the backs of his knuckles. “You punk. And I bet you thought everything was fine and didn’t let the professionals check you over.”

 

“’S about right,” Steve admits, not liking the way his voice is beginning to slur.

 

“So. Your head hurts. You’re feeling sick. Anything else I need to know?”

 

Steve opts to shake his head instead of speak, but he regrets it when nausea surges and he dry heaves.

 

“Ok.” Bucky rubs circles between Steve’s shoulder blades. “I guess we can deal with that.”


	40. Steve's stomachache interrupts a serious conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoa Bessie

James walks in the front door of the apartment and makes a beeline for the kitchen table.  He sits down, resting his elbows on the wooden surface, and drops his forehead into his hands.  He can’t stop replaying Sam’s voice from their therapy session.  Emotion clots in his chest and steals his breath.

“Buck?  What’s going on?”  

James hadn’t expected Steve to be home.  He looks up quickly to see Steve pull out the chair beside him and sit down.  He curls in on himself a little, but places a hand on James’s.  “Did something happen at therapy?”

James slowly  nods.  He swallows and searches for the  words.  It’s easy to hear them echo in his head, but much more difficult to put them in his own voice.  “He, uh,” James starts.  “He wants me to try a prosthetic.”

“Wow,” Steve says, wavering a little as if he’s not sure whether it’s good news.  “That’s…you’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?”

James has.  It’s been on the table since he got out of the hospital, but he’s put off thinking about it too much.  James is comfortable with his fragile routine, and he’s not sure he wants to upset it.

“I…I don’t know,” James murmurs.  “I guess.”  He looks up at Steve, but his expression is glazed.  Steve’s gaze is set over James’s head.  He bites his lip and swallows, but a thunderous groan sounds from his stomach.

“You ok?” James asks, because it’s easier than continuing to talk about him.

“Hm.  Yeah,” Steve says.  “Just need some Tums or something.”  He tries to smile, but his Adam’s apple bobs.  James swears he can hear him swallowing a gag.

James’s brow furrows. “Are you sure?”

Steve doesn’t answer.  He jumps to his feet and sprints down the hall, throwing a muttered, “sorry,” over his shoulder.  

James sighs and gets up to follow.  At least it’ll buy him more time to collect his thoughts.


	41. Steve calls Laura Barton for backup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Powers/No Powers

It’s rare day: Bucky’s at work while Steve’s home sick.  

“I’m ok.  Just a cold, I think,” Steve had lied across the breakfast table.  He was congested, and his head had been throbbing.  He’d swallowed a handful of ibuprofen with a half-glass of orange juice, hoping it would lessen the pain a bit.

A couple hours have passed since then, and Steve only feels worse.  His entire body aches, and he can taste acid and bile at the back of his throat.  He swallows painfully for a few minutes, but his stomach contracts and sends him tripping into the bathroom.  

Steve folds his arms over the toilet as his body fights to turn itself inside out.  He heaves up his meager breakfast, then hangs over the bowl as dry heaves take over.  

He has to be empty by now.  Steve makes an attempt to stand up, but vertigo plays around his temples, and he sags against the wall, fighting the urge to gag again.  He props himself up on his elbows, breathing slowly and trying not to smell the sick odor hanging in the air.  

Steve gives in to another round of vomiting, retching until his abdominal muscles tremble with the effort.  His head pounds, and he knows if he stands up, he’s going to pass out.  

He takes a shaky breath and spits to clear his mouth, then wrangles his phone out his pocket.  Steve squints at the display, not liking the way his vision blurs around the edges.  

Calling Bucky will be useless; he’ll only worry, and he can’t drive anyway.  Sam would be a better choice, but he’s also at work.  Steve scrolls through his contacts until his thumb lands on the entry for Laura Barton.  The kids should be at school, and while he hates to impose, Steve knows she’ll jump at the chance to help.  He lets out his breath as he hits the call button and puts the phone to his ear.

“Hey, Laura,” he rasps when she answers.  “I’m… I really need a Gatorade run, if you’re up to it…”

Steve barely has the words out when she says, “Of course.”


	42. Bucky has a fever on a mission with Nat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heroverse

Bucky hasn’t felt well all day, but it hasn’t been a problem until they got on the subway.  He leans his head against the train’s foggy window and rubs his eye with the heel of his hand.  

“You alright?” Nat whispers.

“Hm.  Yeah.”  They’re disguised as tourists in jeans and windbreakers, their weapons stashed in bulky hiking packs.  Bucky hugs his to his chest and lets out a long, slow breath.  Something about the whole scenario isn’t setting right.  

“You sure?  You’re starting to drag.”  She raises her brows.  “We don’t have to see all the monuments in one day.”   _We can cut the mission short if you’re not up to it._

“No, I’m ok.”  He has to be.  Something tells Bucky he’s not allowed to bow out.  He feels the outline of his gun in his backpack pressing into his leg.  He blinks and tries to recall the handler’s instructions.  He’s taken aback when he comes back blank.  He can usually repeat them word for word.   _Kill him, soldier.  Are you ready to comply?_

“James?”

That’s not his name.  Is it?  “Huh?” Bucky asks, a beat too late.

“What’s wrong?”  

She’s small and red-haired.  He hasn’t worked alongside her before.  He distrusts her on instinct.  Bucky caves in his chest and presses his body into the corner between his train seat and the window.

“Hey, I’m not going to hurt you.”

He can’t believe her, though.  Can he?  Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and wills the fog in his brain to lift.  

A cold hand presses lightly against his forehead.  “Geez, you’re burning up.”

It doesn’t make sense.  He’s freezing.  He’s failing.  They’re going to wipe him, then put him back in storage.

“James.”  She says his name slowly.  “It’s ok.”  She leans in close and switches to Russian, whispering, “ _You’re safe.  You have a fever.  I’m going to get you home_.”

Bucky slowly opens his eyes.  Nat’s face is inches from his, concern in her eyes.  “Is that ok?” she asks.

Bucky takes a moment to let it sink in.  “Yes,” he decides.  “Please.”


	43. Sick Steve goes Christmas shopping with Laura Barton and the kids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Powers/No Powers

“You sure you got it?”  Laura looks at him doubtfully as Steve adjusts the packages he’s carrying to accommodate the huge Macy’s bag she’s just handed over.  

“Yeah.” He grins.  “What would a trip to the mall be without a workout?”

Laura laughs.  “Well, I think that’s almost everybody on my list.”

Steve looks over the bags in his arms.  “You haven’t got Clint’s gift yet, though.”

“He’s a bear to shop for,” Laura admits.  “What about Bucky?”  She turns the tables on Steve.  “What do you want to get for him?”

“I don’t know…” Steve stalls.  He’d hoped to get through the shopping trip without putting too much thought into it.  His head aches, and the crowded mall isn’t doing much to help.

“Can we have a Cinnabon?” Cooper interrupts.

“Yeah, please?” Lila adds, tugging on her mother’s sleeve.

“What do you say?” Laura asks Steve.  “Time for a snack?”  

Steve can already smell the warm bread and frosting, and today it’s less than pleasant.  It seems to coat his tongue in uninvited sweetness.  He swallows hard, though it only makes his stomach jump further up into his chest.  “Uh,” Steve starts.  “Whatever you guys want to do.”

“You ok?” Laura gives him a concerned look?  “Is it too crowded?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Steve insists.  

“You just went really pale,” Laura says.  She tentatively brushes Steve’s jaw with the backs of her knuckles.  “And you’re warm.”

Nausea rises in Steve’s throat, and he swallows convulsively.  “Actually…” he murmurs, willing himself not to vomit.  “I don’t feel that great.”

“You’ve been hanging around with us too much,” Laura smiles.  “Kids and germs.”  She puts her hand agains the small of Steve’s back and steers him toward the exit.  “We’ll get you home.”

Steve swallows another gag and presses his wrist over his mouth.

“Maybe to the bathroom first.”


	44. Pre-serum Steve is too sick to get out of bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heroverse/Pre-serum

Steve swings his legs over the edge of the bed and scoots toward the edge of the mattress.  His shirt sticks to him with clammy sweat, and his lungs rattle with the effort of drawing a full breath.  He’s been in bed for days.  It’s high time he get up.  

Steve plants his feet on the cold wood floor and eases himself to his feet.  Immediately his knees begin to buckle and his head swims.  Stars swirl at the edges of his vision, and he hurriedly leans back, letting the mattress cradle his lumbar spine.  He lets out a relieved breath and pushes his damp bangs off his forehead.  Steve’s heart still thrums, and he knows he’s getting nowhere fast.  

He hoists his hips back over the edge of the bed and slouches his shoulders.  He doesn’t want to lie down again, and he doesn’t want to call out to Bucky.  Steve can hear him bumbling around in the kitchen, probably throwing together a lunch for himself before he runs out the door.  He doesn’t have time to wait on Steve, not when he should be well enough to look after himself.

Steve sighs and drags the rumpled quilt back over his legs.  He watches the morning sun creep across the room from the crack in the curtains.  It should make him feel happy, but all Steve can muster are feelings of hopelessness.

“You’re awake.”  Bucky sticks his head around the door.  He’s partially dressed, and his lunch pail dangles from one wrist.

“Yeah,” Steve rasps.  It immediately turns into a coughing fit, and Bucky hurries to slap him on the back.

“Take it easy,” Bucky warns.

“I am.”

“Yeah, right.”  Bucky grins.  “I gotta leave in a minute.  What can I bring you?”

Steve shakes his head.  “Help me up?”

“So you can run around and get yourself worked up again?” Bucky gives him a knowing look.  “I don’t think so.”

“Come on.  I feel better.”

“Wait till tonight,” Bucky says.  “Then maybe I’ll trust you’ve got your strength back.”

“Please?” Steve adopts a pitiful expression.

“Now you’re just being a punk.”  Bucky laughs and ruffles his hair.  “I’ll pick up up chicken on my way home.  Then we can make soup.”

“Can we afford that?”

“If you behave and let me go to work we will.”  Bucky begins to tuck in his shirt.

Steve leans forward and tugs on his collar.  Bucky bows forward obediently and lets Steve press his lips to his cheek.  

“Don’t you be getting me sick now,” Bucky teases.

“Nah,” Steve says.  “Go.  I’ll be here when you get back.”


	45. Bucky doesn't know when to call it quits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heroverse

Bucky’s a twitchy, quivery mess when they retreat to their suite on the top floor of Avengers tower.  He stops in the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, but his thoughts dissolve halfway through, and he stands blankly in front of the fridge, letting cool air hit the clammy perspiration on his forehead.  

“Hey.”  Steve grabs Bucky’s hand, removing the handle of the refrigerator from his lax grip.  “What do you say we relax for a while?”

“Hm.”  Bucky doesn’t have the energy to string together a sentence.

His one-syllable affirmation is good enough for Steve, and he leads Bucky into the bedroom.  Bucky sinks onto the foot of the mattress, the water bottle shaking in his hand.  He struggles to uncap it, then takes a slow sip.  He holds the liquid in his mouth before swallowing hard.  “I’m…sorry,” he says, looking up at Steve.  

“It’s alright,” Steve says, sitting down beside him.  “But you don’t have to train that hard.  Sometimes you gotta know when to quit.”

“I didn’t think Wanda…  I didn’t think it would…” Bucky shakes his head.  Nauseous pain blooms behind his forehead, and he lets out his breath in a slow sigh.  

“It’s ok, Buck.  You’ll feel better in a little while.”

“Hm.”  Bucky takes another sip of water.  “I hope so.”


	46. Bruce is a total lightweight

“Oh, no, I’m good,” Bruce says, pulling his glass out of Tony’s reach.  “I don‘t need a top off.”

“You have to taste this one, though.”  Tony breaks the seal on a fresh bottle of whiskey.  “I just found it when I was cleaning off the shelves.” He gestures behind him at the messy semblance of tools behind the workbench.  “A 2010 reserve.”

“Aw, you’ve had it for 8 years?”  Bruce wrinkles his nose.  “Gross, man.”

“No, no, it’s better the longer you have it,” Tony explains, refilling his own glass.  “Come on.  You’re gonna love it.”  He waves the bottle temptingly.

“I’ve had enough,” Bruce says, trying for a serious tone despite his slur.  “Really—”

Tony snatches the glass out of his lax grip.  “Overruled.”  He grins as he tips the bottle of amber liquid.

“Jesus Christ.  Talk about peer pressure.”

“Yep, I’m the kid they warned you about.”

“Oh my god,” Bruce says, eyes widening.  “You are.  I was never cool enough to get asked to do things in school, but now…”  He trails off, sliding his glass back and forth between his hands.

“Times have changed, huh?”  Tony throws back his drink.  Bruce stares at him for a moment, then follows suit.

“Atta boy,” Tony says, clapping him on the shoulder.  “You know, Peter tells me they have Captain America videos in school now.  You know, telling them not to do drugs and stuff?”

“Or accept drinks from…what is it?”  Bruce’s brow furrows as he concentrates.  “Million dollar…Playboy…something?”

“Close enough,” Tony laughs.

“Or…what is it?  Phil…Philanthro…”  Bruce slams his empty glass back on the bench.

“Philanthropist,” Tony corrects, splashing more alcohol into Bruce’s cup.

“That totally sounds like a made-up word.”  Bruce takes a gulp of his drink, then presses his fist to his mouth to quiet a belch.

“It’s real enough.  Look at me, giving away my nice whiskey to a lightweight like you.”  Tony grins slyly and swigs straight from the bottle.

“’M not a lightweight,” Bruce mumbles.  He throws his elbows on the table and hangs his head between his hands.

“You sure about that?  You look like you’re gonna fall asleep.”

“Nah.  I feel…more like I’m gonna puke…”  Bruce’s eyes drift shut.

“What now?”  Tony stares at him.

“I—”  Bruce’s shoulders hunch as he gags.  His cheeks puff out comically as he scrambles to get out of his chair.

“Whoa, ok, not on the table.”  Tony grabs the back of Bruce’s chair and swivels it around.  The motion catches Bruce off guard, and he heaves again, sick spraying down his front and onto the floor.  He braces his hands on his knees as he retches harshly.

“Ugh.  Sorry,” Bruce rasps when he has his breath.

“Probably my fault,” Tony says, “For having, uh, refreshments in the lab.”

Bruce laughs, but a sick burp bubbles up, and a dribble of bile drips down his chin.

“Alright.  Why don’t we get you over to the couch.”  Tony slips his arm around Bruce’s waist.  “Then I’ll grab you a trash can.”

“Hm.  Ok.”  Bruce lets himself be steered across the lab.

Tony gets him situated on the leather sofa with a bin in his lap, then snaps his fingers and points at the mess on the floor.  “Hey.  Dumm-E. You wanna get on that?”

“I’m…sorry,” Bruce mumbles again, resting his forehead on the rim of the trash can.

“It happens.”  Tony carries the discarded glasses to the sink and begins rinsing them out.  “How about we strike a deal, though.  You keep quiet about the drinking and working thing, and I won’t make fun of you in front of everybody.  Fair?”

Bruce considers for a moment as he breathes through a hiccup.  “Yeah,” he says.  “Sounds fair.”


	47. Darcy takes care of Bucky when he's sick at work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Powers/No Powers

“James?” Darcy’s voice carries back from the reception desk.  “You’re way too quiet back there.”

Bucky lifts his forehead from his keyboard, rubbing the space bar-shaped indent above his eyebrows.  He should say something back, but the part of his brain that forms words seems to be turned off.  “Hm,” he breathes.

“You alright?”  Darcy pops her chewing gum and creaks her chair as she swivels it around.

It shouldn’t be a hard question, but Bucky has to concentrate, first to understand what she’s asking, then to figure out an answer.  It’s as though a thick fog swirls inside his skull, muddling his thoughts and pressing against his sinuses in a new, exquisite type of headache.  His stomach hurts too, but he doesn’t feel it in his gut.  The organ seems to have taken up residence in his chest, pressing toward the base of his throat.

“I… um…”  Clammy sweat breaks out over Bucky’s upper lip.  He wipes it with his fingertips, but stubble burns against his sensitive skin.  His heart hammers, sending a sick throb from his head down to his feet.  Realization and confusion hit at the same time, mixing with the cloudy malaise behind Bucky’s forehead.  “I feel like I’m gonna throw up—”

The words are an invitation, and Bucky gags at the same time as Darcy says, “What?”

Instinct propels him out of his chair.  Bucky slaps his hand over his mouth and collides with the wall of his cubicle as he dizzily looks for a way out.

“Oh my god.  Come here.”  Darcy gives him a panicked look and plants her hand at the small of his back.  “Ok, ok, ok,” she chants under her breath as she pushes him toward the door.

Bucky tries frantically to swallow the bitterness flooding his mouth, but his jaw goes numb and a horrible noise escapes him as warm liquid hits his hand.

“Crap.  You’re not gonna make it.”  Darcy yanks on the hem of Bucky’s shirt and changes direction, ducking under her desk for the trash can and holding it at waist height.

His body makes another attempt to purge, wracking his shoulders forward and stealing his vision in swirls of vertigo.  Bucky fights to keep his lips closed, but it’s no use.  Vomit runs between his fingers, splashing up his nose and down his chin.

“It’s ok.  Let it go,” Darcy says.  She doesn’t seem scared anymore.  Just worried.

Bucky lifts his hand from his face, but the desire to grip something surfaces with another immense heave.  He latches onto the edge of the bin and sucks in a shaky breath as he waits for the nausea to ebb.

Bucky retches again, though hardly anything comes up.  The drab office fades into white around the edges.  He doesn’t feel himself sway, only Darcy shoving him backwards.  Bucky fights her, convinced he’s going to fall, but the seat of a chair appears behind his thighs, and he relaxes.

“There you go,” Darcy murmurs.  She cards his hair out of his eyes and steadies the trash can in Bucky’s lap.  “Breathe, ok?  Don’t go passing out on me.”

“Hm,” Bucky tries to say, but he ends up coughing instead.

“Ok.  You just chill.  You’re gonna be ok.”  She wipes her hand on James’s shoulder.  “Sorry,” she says with a sympathetic smile.  “I wasn’t gonna get it on me.”

“No,” Bucky starts, “I’m—”  He’s going for  _sorry_ , but a dry heave tears out of him before he can say it.

“Sick?” Darcy offers.  She reaches for the phone.  “Pukey-sick is the worst, but we’ll get you taken care of.  I’m gonna call Steve, ok?”

Bucky spits, but mucous still clings to his lips.  His teeth chatter from the tremors running through his body.  “Ok,” he breathes.


	48. T'Challa takes Shuri to Coachella

“Come on, brother.” Shuri tugs on T’Challa’s arm. “If we’re going to get a place to sit anywhere near the stage, we have to go now.”

“Slow down,” T’Challa says. “You’ve been running around all day.”

“But this is important!” Shuri protests.

“You’ve said that about everything.” T’Challa grins at her. “Take a breath. Let’s get something to drink first.”

“You’re acting like a mother hen. We’re supposed to just go with the flow and have fun.”

“Alright, alright.” T’Challs holds up his hands. “We can find a place to sit. But then I’m getting us dinner. You haven’t eaten enough for how much excitement you’ve had.”

“Oh, fine.” Shuri rolls her eyes. She leads the way through the crowd toward the main stage.

The sun hangs low in the sky, but the heat and humidity are still oppressive. It reminds Shuri of afternoons spent out in the palace grounds back home in Wakanda, but the masses of people all around make it seem hotter and stuffier here. She wipes a bead of sweat running down her brow, then looks over her shoulder to be sure T’Challa’s still behind her.

As Shuri turns her head, a bright sign catches her eye, and she stops. “Is that a jewelry-making tent?”

“It is,” T’Challa says. “But I thought your plan was to get a seat near the stage.”

“We can in a few minutes.” Shuri makes a beeline for the tent. “I want to try this first.”

T’Challa laughs. “You and your adventurous spirit.”

Shuri doesn’t hear him. She’s already choosing a handful of beads.

The air is even thicker inside the tent, its canvas walls blocking the breeze. T’Challa stands dutifully beside Shuri as she arranges a pattern and begins to string them on a leather cord. One of the beads drops between her fingers and into the trampled grass at her feet.

“Oops.” Shuri bends to retrieve it, but the change in altitude sends her head spinning. A sensation of free-fall blooms in her stomach, and before she knows what’s happening, she lands hard on her bottom.

“Shuri!” T’Challa crouches and presses his sister’s spine forward so her head rests against her knees.

“I’m ok,” Shuri says weakly. “Stop worrying.” Perspiration flows freely down her temples. “I’m just hot.”

“I think it’s more than that,” T’Challa says. “You’ve pushed yourself too hard.”

A bystander asks if they need a medic, and T’Challa says, “Yes,” even though Shuri shakes her head.

“Maybe some water,” she says. “But I’m ok.” She lifts her head and blinks away dizziness. “I promise.”

“You have to take care of yourself,” T’Challa says, squeezing her shoulder. “Or let me take care of you.”

Shuri sighs. “Fine,” she reluctantly agrees. “But if I see a medic, can we stay? I’ll sit quietly. If we get a spot near the stage.”

T’Challa laughs. “We’ll see.”


	49. Steve does in fact need to call in sick to work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoa Bessie (AU 'verse in which Steve is trans and Bucky is a veteran/amputee, not that either of these things factor into the story)

When Steve wakes, the first thing he sees is James leaning over him.  

“What the hell?” Steve instinctively pushes James’s hand away and rolls onto his side.

“Sorry,” James says.  “I just wanted to check your fever.”

“I don’t have a fever,” Steve says.  His voice comes out as a rasp, but it’s early in the morning.  His throat is dry.  He’ll be fine once he gets a cup of coffee.  

“Yeah, you do.”  James lays his fingers over the back of Steve’s neck.  

“Stop, I’m ok.”  Steve sits up and stretches.  “What time is it?”  He looks over at the clock on the bedside table.  It’s nearly 8.  “Shit.  Did I sleep through the alarm?”

“I turned it off,” James says matter-of-factly.  “You needed to sleep.”

“No, I need to go to work.”  Steve throws off the covers, and goosebumps erupt over his arms and legs.  He jumps up and opens the dresser drawer, reaching for a pair of jeans.  

“I can call you in sick,” James offers.  

“Buck,” Steve says.  “I’m fine.  But you can text Nick and tell him I’m very sorry I’m late.”  He hops as he pulls his pants up.  Dizziness swirls around Steve’s head, but he tries not to let it show on his face.

James scowls at him.  He shakes his head.

“Ok, fine, I might be a little under the weather,” Steve admits.  There’s no way he can hide the way the pain behind his forehead is making him squint.  “But it’s not that bad–”  An intense throb shoots through his left temple, radiating down into his jaw.  Nausea rises, and it’s all he can do to keep his stomach in place.  “Oh, god,” Steve mutters, dropping to his knees with his face buried in the edge of the mattress.

“Stevie?”  James is immediately at his shoulder, wrapping him in a hug that’s both comforting and overwhelming.

“Yeah, hang on,” Steve chokes.

“You’re sick.”

Steve swallows hard, then sighs.  “Yeah.  I guess I am.”


	50. Pepper finds a sick Tony down in the lab

“Hey,” Pepper calls as she descends the stairs down to the lab.  “You still working?”  

Tony’s hunched over his desk, tapping at his iPad with a stylus.  He glances up when Pepper appears in front of him.  “Oh.  Um, Yeah,” he says, absently rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.  

“Another upgrade to your armor?” Pepper asks.

“Yeah,” Tony says again.  “I mean, no.  To the suit.  Peter’s suit.  He doesn’t have armor…”

“Ok.”  Pepper scoots a pile of papers and sits on the edge of the desk.  “You want some breakfast.”

“Yeah, that’d be good.”  Tony returns his attention to the sketch on the screen.

“Do you have any idea what I just said?” Pepper asks, reaching down to turn off the iPad.

“Hey!” Tony complains.  

“You’re not yourself today.  What’s going on?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re pale,” Pepper says, brushing a rogue curl off Tony’s forehead.  “And you just agreed to eat without putting up a fight.”

“I did?”

“And you’re having conversations without knowing what you’re saying.”  Pepper gives him a small smile.  “You feel a little warm.”

“That’s funny, because it’s freezing in here,” Tony says.

“Come upstairs.”  Pepper hops down from the desk and grabs Tony’s hands.  “We’ll get you patched up.”


	51. Peter Quill gets motion sickness when he's not driving

Quill stumbles toward the pilot’s seat.  “Ok.  Get out.  I’m driving.”

“Driving?”  Rocket gives him a look.  “I was under the impression this machine was the zooming around in the air type.”

“Flying.  Whatever.”  Quill jerks his thumb over his shoulder.  “Just get out of my seat.”

“Someone’s in a mood.”  The raccoon rolls his eyes.

“I’m not in a mood,” Quill argues.  His head aches, and he has no patience to speak of.  He just knows he has to get behind the wheel before his growing queasiness gets the better of him.

“Hey, let’s take a vote,” Rocket shouts to the ship at large.  “Everyone who thinks Quill’s too moody to be the pilot, say ‘aye.’“

“Oh, shut up,” Quill says.  His stomach flips threateningly, and he quickly sits in the copilot’s chair and wraps his arm around his middle.

“Yeah, be the copilot,” Rocket sneers.  “That’s where you belong.”

“Whatever,” Quill breathes.  He swallows hard against rising bitterness.  He forces himself to look out the window, searching for a nonexistent horizon.

“What’re you looking for?  It’s space.  It all looks the same.”

“Did you hear me when I asked you to shut up?”  Quill wishes there wasn’t a note of panic in his voice.

“Yeah,” Rocket answers.  “I just chose to ignore you.  Since you’re not the pilot.”

Quill opens his mouth to retort, but quickly closes it as his nausea spikes.  

“What?  Didn’t hear ya,” Rocket says with a chuckle.

Bile explodes into Quill’s throat.  He slaps his hand over his mouth, but it’s no help.  The best he can do is lean sideways so he’s sick on the floor instead of on the steering column in front of him.

“Oh.”  Rocket wrinkles his nose.  “Good one.”

Quill stifles a sick belch.  “Yeah,” he mutters.


	52. Tony vomits blood on a mission with Nat

As soon as a police car squeals up to the curb, Nat takes off running.  “Come on, Stark,” she yells to Tony.  “That’s us done.  Let’s get out of here.”

Tony follows behind her at a walk.  He tries not to let it turn into a limp.  Nat waits patiently for him to reach the jet, then holds the door open.  “Ladies first,” she quips.

“Hm.”  Tony can’t dredge up more of a response.

“Come on.  It was a successful mission.  The least you can do is tell me to shut up.”  Nat flops into a seat and breaks the seal on a bottle of water.

Tony sits down gingerly.  He presses his metal-gloved hands into his knees.  He breathes out slowly as the jet prepares to take off, the engine rumbling loudly.

“Ok, you can’t sit across from me and stare at me the whole time,” Nat sighs.  “At least put your mask up or something.”

“Ok, fine,” Tony breathes.  He retracts the mask.  He enjoys the feeling of air on his cheeks for a moment, then the jet leaves the runway, and his stomach sloshes sickeningly.  “Fuck,” he mutters.

“What?”

Tony can’t answer.  He pitches forward over his knees and vomits.  He wraps his arms around his stomach by instinct, though it doesn’t do any good since he’s still encased in his suit.

“Yeah.  Fuck,” Nat agrees.  She reaches over to pat Tony’s shoulder.  “Did you get hit?” she asks.

“Huh?”  Tony sputters and looks up at her.

“You’re puking blood,” Nat says, her expression stony.

Tony’s suddenly aware of the coppery taste spreading over his tongue.  It makes him gag all over again.

“Hey,” Nat calls to the pilot.  “You wanna step on it?  He needs medical attention.”


	53. T'Challa and Okoye train too hard

“You have to try harder than that,” Okoye says, feinting at T’Challa’s shoulder and tapping his knee with her spear.  “You think your Panther suit will protect you, but it’s nothing if you have no skills.”

“You’re right,” T’Challa pants, jumpint backward out of her way.  “But I think I’ve learned my lesson.”  He looks longingly at the pitcher of water and the dry towels at the edge of the arena.

“Pay attention!” Okoye snaps.  She flips the butt of the spear into T’Challa’s ribs.  “If you’re thinking about relaxing, you’re not focusing on the fight.  That makes it easy to best you.”

“You can always best me,” T’Challa says with a smile.  “You’re the only person I’ll admit it to.”

“The king should be bested by no one.”  Okoye’s expression remains stony.

“Then you’ll have to take it easier,” T’Challa teases.

“I’ll do no such thing.”  Okoye jumps forward.

T’Challa scrambles away from the point of her spear.  He slips on the grass and ends up flat on his back.

“Dead,” Okoye says, tapping his chin.

“Dead,” T’Challa agrees.  “Tired.  Hot.”  He sits up.  “Thirsty.”

Okoye extends a hand down to help him up.  “There are no breaks in a real battle,” she reminds him.

“Well, lucky me, this is just training,” T’Challa smiles and reaches for the pitcher of water.


	54. Sif forces Thor to admit defeat

“Come on,” Sif shouts, bounding ahead toward the bifrost.  “Why are you hesitating before a battle?”

“I am not,” Thor insists, quickening his pace to catch up with her. 

“I think this is the first time I’ve seen you like this,” Sif says, stopping to look at him.

“Like what?”  Thor puffs out his chest, offended.

Sif cocks her head.  “Pale.  Tired.”  She shrugs.  “Looks like you’ll have to leave all the action to me.”

“You most certainly won’t,” Thor says.  He tucks his hammer under his arm and removes his helmet.  He runs his hand through is hair and wipes clammy sweat from his forehead before putting it back on.

“Grooming yourself for the enemy?” Sif teases.

“Be quiet,” Thor tells her, though is voice lacks its usual gusto.

“Alright, if you insist,” Sif says.  “But you’ve never needed silence to concentrate on your battle tactics.”  She laughs  “I thought it was ‘slash everything in sight.’“

“Is it too much to just want a moment of quiet?”

“No, but…”  Sif grabs his arm.  “You’re unwell, aren’t you?”

“What?”  Thor quickly shakes her off.  “I’m fine.”

Sif brushes her fingers over Thor’s cheek.  “You’re warm to the touch.  You look–”

“Stop,” Thor says.  He steps away, but stumbles over his feet.”

“Like you’re going to faint,” Sif finishes.  “There’s no shame in resting.”

“I know there isn’t,” Thor snaps.

“Then rest.”  Sif pulls him in the opposite direction.  “Or I’ll have to make you.”


	55. Bruce is locked out post hulk-out

When Bruce wakes naked and flat on his back in an alley, he doesn’t waste the time to wonder what happened or how he got there.  He focuses on the fact that he’s only a block and a half from the tower, and he can get there without popping out onto the sidewalk.  He holds his hands in front of himself like a shield and jogs as quickly as he can manage with his stomach roiling and his cheeks burning.

Bruce sprints the last few yards up the ramp to the back door where they usually take deliveries of things like groceries and lab equipment.  He looks frantically around frantically before leaning in and turning the knob. 

 “Shit,” Bruce mutters when the door doesn’t budge.  “Today of all days…”  

He shakes his head and weighs his options.  He could run around to the front where there’s sure to be an open door, but that would involve being out in open.  With his luck, he’s sure to run into a car, or worse, a pedestrian.  

Bruce lets out a breath and raises his fist.  He hammers on the back door, anxiety fueling his fervor.  The feeling almost edges toward anger, but he doesn’t have the energy to hulk out again so soon.  

In the end, it’s a relief that he doesn’t, because the door swings open to reveal Tony in a bathrobe, clutching a cup of coffee.  “Um.  Hi,” Tony says.  He blinks at Bruce a few times.  Bruce squeezes his eye shut so he doesn’t have to watch Tony look down and back up.

“You uh, locked yourself out?” Tony asks.

“Yup.”  Bruce takes a quick peek over his shoulder and edges closer to the door.

“You ok?” Tony looks at him with concern.  “You look flushed.”

“Yeah, I’m fine, Bruce says quickly.  “Just, you know.  The usual come-down.  Can I come in?”  

“You sure you don’t want to stand out there in the loading bay a while longer?  It’s getting pretty awkward.  Which is kind of entertaining.”  Tony grins.

“Please?” Bruce asks desperately.

“Ok, since you asked so nicely.”  Tony takes a step back and swigs his coffee.  

“Thanks,” Bruce mutters.

“Oh, and Pepper took the laundry, so there aren’t any clean clothes in the gym.  You’ll have to go all the way up to your room to get something to wear.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bruce sighs.  “Ok.  Sure.”  He resigns himself for the long walk to the elevator.


	56. Bucky worries, even when everything's fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heroverse, pre-serum

“Where have you been?” Bucky thunders before Steve even has the door all the way open.  “I got home an hour ago, and you weren’t here!”

“I know, I know,” Steve says, coughing into his fist ands struggling out of his coat.  “I had a meeting.  I was gonna tell you, I promise.”

“What kind of meeting?”  Bucky narrows his eyes.  “It better have been important, you’re gonna catch your death running around town when it’s freezing out.”

“I–” A deep cough explodes from Steve’s chest, stealing his breath.

“Ok.”  Bucky slaps him on the back.  “Breathe.”

“I’m fine,” Steve chokes.

“You’re sick,” Bucky corrects.  “But, ok.”

“Shut up,” Steve rasps.  He finishes pulling off his coat and drapes it over the back of a chair.  

“Here.”  Bucky scoots out the chair and pours Steve a glass of water.  “Now.  Tell me all about it.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Steve complains, taking a small sip.

“I don’t like surprises,” Bucky says, taking the seat opposite.  “Especially when they involve me coming home to an empty house and you showing up hacking your lungs up.”

“Fine,” Steve sighs.  “I got a job.”

“A job?”  Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up.  “Do you think that’s a good idea?  Sorry, Stevie, but do you really think you can handle that?”

“Yes, I can, thank you very much.”  Steve gives him a hard look, but it only lasts a moment.  “It’s drawing comics for the paper.  I can do it from home.  Just gotta to the offices once a week to drop them off.”

“Oh.”  Bucky grins.  “That’s really something.  Your name in print.”  He gets up and ruffles Steve’s hair.  “I’m prod of you, you know?”

“Hey, stop it, Buck,” Steve complains, combing his bangs back down over his forehead.

“Why? Am I hurting you?”  Bucky puts on a concerned look.  “Cause you feel warm.”

“You ever gonna quit worrying?”

“I don’t think so,” Bucky says.

 

 


	57. He said more than just "where's the fight?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing moments

“Where’s the fight?” Bucky asks, looking down at the perfectly formed arm in the case.  Everything leaves his mind except a sense of duty.  Bad things happen, and he makes them better.  Or he makes them worse, depending on who’s doing the telling.  

It’s not feasible to put the arm on when he’s sweaty and in the middle of a field, so he trails behind T’Challa on the way up to the palace while the smaller, logistical bits take root in the cracks.   _What kind of fight?  Who else is coming?_

T’Challa leans against the door while Shuri fusses with the arm.  It would be a good time to ask questions, but Bucky’s mouth is dry, and his brain is blank again.  He has a feeling he’s supposed to wait for instructions.  Speak only when spoken to.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you, ok?” Shuri says as she tightens something on his shoulder.  “I’m nearly finished.”

“Hm,” Bucky manages.  It does hurt, but he feels like he’s not supposed to say it.

“Just another moment…” Shuri hums.  “There.”  She takes a step back.

Bucky looks down at the arm and turns his wrist. It’s perfectly weighted.  Moving it is easy.  He’s so used to being without it, though, that an uneasy feeling blooms in his stomach.

“How do you feel?” Shuri asks.

“Um.  Dizzy,” Bucky admits.  

T’Challa hastens to push a chair behind Bucky’s knees and urges him to sit.  “There.  It’s alright.  It’ll take some getting used to.”

Bucky nods and intertwines his fingers.  He rests his chin on the crests of his knuckles.  “Yeah,” He murmurs.  His throat is tight as all the questions from earlier fall over each other on their way out.  “Is…is Steve coming?”

A smile plays over T’Challa’s lips as he nods.

Bucky lets out his breath.  He thinks he feels better.


	58. Thor watches Tony faint

“Man of Iron?”  

Thor leaps forward and wraps his arms around Tony’s waist.  The suit remains stiff, but the lower back flexes.  He has a feeling Tony’s body is limp inside.

“You cannot die.  We were victorious!”  He lowers Tony to the ground and begins to fumble with his faceplate.  “And you aren’t even injured.”

The Iron Man helmet proves to be impregnable.  Thor lets out a groan of frustration and is about to give it a good smack with his hammer when someone yells, “Whoa, buddy!  What’re you doing?”

An exhausted-looking Bruce Banner runs toward him, clad in an oversized t-shirt and shorts.  “What’s going on ?”

Thor nods at Tony’s lifeless form.  “He just fell.  I see no injuries, but I worry he has expired…”

“Ok, ok, calm down.”  Bruce squats at Tony’s shoulder.  He gently taps the helmet’s faceplate, and it retracts.

“Hmph,” Thor complains.

Bruce pays him no mind.  He leans in close with his ear over Tony’s nose and mouth.  “He’s breathing,” Bruce whispers.  He looks to Thor.  “You ever hear of an adrenaline crash?”

“Is that where two flying vehicles collide with each other?”  Thor uses his hands to demonstrate.

“No, more like, where you’ve had too much excitement for one day, and your body needs a rest.”  Bruce glances back at Tony’s peaceful expression.  “He’ll be fine.  He’s just passed out.”

“That…doesn’t happen on Asgard,” Thor says suspiciously.

“Go figure.”  Bruce shrugs.  “He’ll wake up soon enough, and he’ll probably want junk food.  Maybe a beer.”

“I’m more familiar with that response.”  Thor grins.

Bruce smiles too. “That’s what I thought.”


	59. Peter's sick with the whole gang in the car

“Why’d I get stuck in the middle?” Peter mutters, wrapping his arms around his stomach.

“‘Cause you’re little,” Tony says from the seat on his right.

Nat snorts from the seat to Peter’s left.  “You’re not that tall yourself, Tony.”

“Hey,” Tony snaps.  “I realize this,” he gestures around at the packed car, “Isn’t ideal, but it’s annoying to take two cars into the city where there’s barely a parking spot anyway…”

“Naw, we’re just glad you’re taking us as your…plus three.”  Clint looks back from the front passenger seat.  “What show is it again?”

“Lion king?  Or maybe Cats?”  Tony shrugs.  “I don’t know.  Pepper organized it.  When some businessman sends a thank-you gift for something I don’t remember doing to begin with, I don’t ask a lot of questions.”

“Is it…is it gonna be a long drive?” Peter asks, hesitantly.  His stomach is beginning to flip, and he hopes they’re not in for dinner and a show.

“It’s the same length as every other time we drive you upstate from the city,” Tony says, a note of duh in his voice.

“Oh.  Yeah.”  Peter swallows hard and looks out the window.

“Any particular reason you were asking?”  Why is it now that Tony has to take an interest and make conversation?

“Um,” Peter hesitates.  He swallows again and tries to ignore the clammy sweat breaking out over his brow.  “I just kinda, you know.  Don’t feel that good.”

There’s a beat of silence.  

“I, uh–” Peter starts again, but a gag comes with the words.  He quickly claps his hand over his mouth.  He manages to keep the little that comes up contained against his palm, but a second retch hangs in his throat.

“Oh, god, kid, why didn’t you say something earlier?”  Tony shifts as far from Peter as he can and looks desperately to Nat.  “Do you have something?  Like a bag?”

Peter heaves, leaning forward so he avoids getting sick on the front of his suit jacket.  Bile splashes between his shoes.  Nat pats him on the back.  “Clint, is there something in the glove box?”

Clint doesn’t seem to hear her.  “Jesus Christ,” he whispers.  “Being in the front is not helping, now that I know that’s going on in the back…”

“I’m sorry,” Peter chokes, dragging his fist over his lips.  

“It’s not your fault,” Tony says.  “But shit.  This is not what I expected to be dealing with today.

_____

Clint doesn’t think he breathes once until they pull off the highway and park outside a McDonalds.  At first being out in the fresh air helps, but as soon as he sees Tony ushering the vomit-spattered kid into the restaurant to clean up, Clint’s stomach turns all over again.  

He walks slowly toward the door, wondering if buying himself a soda will help or hurt things.  Halfway across the parking lot, Clint gets a whiff of combined coffee and garbage, and he barely has time to double over before he’s throwing up all over his own shoes.

“Geez,” Nat’s voice says from somewhere behind Clint’s shoulder.  “How long you been holding that in?”

“Long enough,” Clint chokes before retching again.

“I thought you’d be good with kid puke by now.”  Nat laughs.

“Usually.  Just not in a moving vehicle.”  Clint spits and fights a hiccup.  “I’ll be fine.”

“You always are.”

Clint sidesteps the puddle of sick and continues toward the door.  “What do you think the chances are no one will notice?” he rasps.

“Nil, probably,” Nat says shortly.  She grabs Clint’s hand.  “But I’ll buy you a Sprite, if you want.”


	60. Steve deals with a stomach bug alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heroverse

Something’s off.  Steve can’t exactly put his finger on it, but when Tony asks if he wants to watch a movie, Steve says no.  He’d rather read in his room.

He’s been trying to read for the past hour.  Now Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets balances on its covers on the quilt beside him.  Steve likes the series.  He just can’t seem to concentrate.  

He folds his hands behind his head and lets out a long, slow breath.  He’s tired, but somehow twitchy.  He wants to sit still, and maybe fall asleep, but that kind of peace is beyond him.  Steve drags his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them.

As he moves, something twinges in his gut, and nausea rolls upward, sparking a sour taste on his tongue.  Steve swallows, hoping to quash the feeling with willpower.

It does nothing, and when clammy sweat breaks out over his forehead, he knows he has to move.  Dizziness hits him in the forehead as he stands up and hustles toward the bathroom.  It occurs to Steve he hasn’t thrown up in over half a century.  Not that it feels like it.  This is familiar and horrible.

Steve grips the toilet seat with both hands as he heaves hard.  Lunch rushes up, then breakfast, then bile.  Once that’s gone, he’s still retching, trying to neutralize the convulsive dry heaves with measured breaths.  

Finally, the nausea dissolves into malaise and exhaustion.  Steve leans against the wall and uses a length of toilet paper to mop residual sick and sweat from his face.

“Do you require assistance, Captain Rogers?”

Steve jumps at the sound of JARVIS’s voice ringing through the otherwise empty room.  So much has changed.  But at the same time, so much is familiar despite the intervening years.


	61. Even drunk Bucky is protective of Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-serum, heroverse

Hey.”  Bucky slides onto the barstool beside Steve’s and slams his arm down in front of the beer Steve’s just ordered.  He pulls the glass toward himself and takes a swig of the white foam.

“Hey, yourself,” Steve complains.  “That was mine.”

“Naw.  You think I’m letting you get drunk tonight?  I’ll be cleaning up your puke till the sun’s up.”  He grins and gives Steve a slap on the back.

“You’re a jerk, you know that?”  Steve can’t help but smile, though.

“And you’re a punk.”  He leans in close, his warm, wet breath puffing against Steve’e ear.  “My punk.”

“Aw, Buck, not here.”  Steve laughs and pushes him away, then lunges for the beer.  Bucky manages to keep it away, though half of it ends up spilled down his front.

“See what you made me do?”

“You did it to yourself.”  Steve shoves a napkin at him.  “But maybe you’re right.”

“Aren’t I always?”  Bucky mops himself up.  “But what this time?”

“Between the two of us, one drunk is enough.”


	62. Steve's sick post-serum (Howling Commandos era)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heroverse

They’re hiking through a mountain range when Steve stops suddenly.

“What?  You see something?” Bucky asks.  He hooks his thumbs under the straps of his pack and squints into the distance. 

“No, it’s nothing,” Steve assures him.  “I just…felt weird for a second.” 

“What kind of weird?”

“I don’t know.”  Steve shakes his head as if ridding water from his ears.  “Just…weird.”

“Well, that clears that up.”  Bucky grins and swats Steve’s arm.  The touch turns to a caress, then he drops his arm to his side.

“Sorry.”  Steve takes a breath and looks around self-consciously before he starts walking again.  “Didn’t mean to hold everybody up.”

The group traipses through the pass until night falls, then they make camp at the edge of a babbling stream.  The sounds of Dugan and Morita whooping and skipping stones carries into the tent, but Bucky’s content to stay put.  Steve seems to want to call it an early night. 

“You really gotta pipe down, there, Stevie,” Bucky says.  He’s on his stomach on his bedroll with his head in his hands.  Steve’s similarly reclined, but on his back, and his closed sketchbook rests on his stomach.  “Someone might hear you.” 

The corners of Steve’s mouth turn up in a smirk.  He pushes his sketchbook onto the trampled grass and turns on his side to face Bucky.  “Yeah,” he sighs.  His eyes are glassy in the dark. 

“You ok?” Bucky asks.  “You look like you aren’t feeling too hot.”

“Honestly?” Steve says, pushing his hair off his forehead.  “I’m not.”

“I thought the serum was supposed to keep that from happening.”  Bucky pushes up to his knees and reaches across to feel Steve’s temperature.  

“So did I.  But I guess it doesn’t guard against everything.” 

“Shit, Stevie.  You’re boiling.  Why didn’t you say something earlier?”  Bucky fumbles for a towel and his canteen.  He splashes water on it and tucks the compress against Steve’s forehead.  

“I didn’t feel bad earlier,” Steve says.  “Just…I don’t know.  It’s hard to describe.”

“Try me.”  Bucky nudges Steve over a few inches so he can lay beside him.

“It’s like…” Steve starts.  “Like I could count the seconds.  My head didn’t hurt, then it did.  My throat was fine, then it was sore.”

“And now you’ve got one hell of a fever,” Bucky finishes.  “Well, the serum speeds up your metabolism, right?”

Steve nods, not entirely hiding the way his teeth are chattering.

“So maybe you’ll get over it just as quick.”  Bucky presses his chest against Steve’s shoulder and throws his arm around him. 

“Somebody’s gonna see you,” Steve warns.

“Naw,” Bucky dismisses.  “Besides, I got a good excuse.  You’re sick.”

“Probably not for long.”

“See?”  Bucky raises his eyebrows.  “Gotta take my chances when they come.”

 


	63. Peter Quill has a fever, Gamora comforts, and Rocket doesn't get it.

With the close quarters on the Milano, it’s impossible to vomit quietly.  The best Quill can do is sit on his bed with a basin in his lap and pretend the rest of the ship can’t hear him.  

It’s harder to pretend he can’t hear the rest of them.  “I’m never gonna get this humie thing,” Rocket snickers.  “At this point, he’s just wasting food.”

“And I’m sure he has a thousand complaints about you,” Gamora sighs.  

If he wasn’t fighting a gag, Quill would be glad she was sticking up for him.  

“What do you know about it?” Rocket continues to jibe.  

There’s a sound of a fist making contact with something hard, a yelp of pain, and then footsteps crossing the ship.  The curtain in front of the bunks swishes back, and Quill’s bed dips as someone sits down beside him.

“You don’t have to watch,” he groans before giving in to another retch.

“No, I didn’t mean to intrude,” Gamora says quickly.  “Everyone deserves privacy for a moment like this.”

“Yeah, we get a lot of that around here…”  Quill chokes.  “That was sarcasm.”

“Stop talking.”  Gamora lays her hand on the back of his neck.  “I just wanted to see if you were alright.”  She pauses.  “Your body temperature is elevated.”

“Not surprised.”  Quill gags dryly.  “But I’m ok.  ‘M just sick.”

“Just sick?” Gamora repeats.  “So I should leave you to be alone?”

“Well.”  Quill wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.  “I guess some company wouldn’t be so bad.”


	64. Steve's sick at Avengers Tower, and no one cares except Tony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heroverse

Steve trudges down to the kitchen.  He ignores the coffee pot and reaches for the door to the fridge instead.  He grabs a water bottle and fights the instinct to hold it to his fevered cheeks before opening it and taking a swig.  

Something pops out of the toaster, and Steve barely hops out of the way as Thor bounds across the floor to retrieve it.  “Your reflexes are slow today, Captain,” Thor remarks as he stuffs the PopTart into his mouth.  “Perhaps you’ll join me to train later.”

“Thanks,” Steve mutters, hoping he doesn’t sound as congested as he feels.  “But I might need to take a day.”

“Never in my life have I heard you say that,” Natasha laughs from her perch at the counter.  

“Yeah, well,” Steve shrugs.  His head throbs, and his patience wears thin.

“Hey.”  Tony claps Steve on the shoulder and presses a small bottle into his hand.  Steve looks down at the label.  Extra-strength Tylenol.  

“I would throw it, but I didn’t think you’d catch it,” Tony says with a wink.  “And your dose is 8, by the way.  Don’t go by what the bottle says.”

“Right,” Steve says, turning to head back upstairs.  “Thanks”

 

 


	65. Tony has appendicitis

“Hey, Steve?”  Tony breathes in and out slowly, trying not to blow into the phone.

“No annoying nickname today?” 

The reception’s bad, but Tony hears a thumping sound in the background.  “Please tell me you’re on a treadmill, and not doing…”  He would’ve said it, just to annoy Steve, but the sharp pain in Tony’s stomach flares, and he has to bite his lip to keep from crying out.

“I was done running anyway.”  There’s a beep and the thumping stops.  “What’s up?”

“Promise you won’t freak out,” Tony says.  

“Why would I freak out?”

“Mm, just promise you won’t.”  Tony swallows nausea as he waits for Steve to reply.

“Ok?  Is it a mission or what?” Steve’s voice goes echoey.  Tony imagines him stepping into a dingy locker room.

“Yeah, I guess.  Think of it as a mission.”

“That’s not giving me a lot of confidence,” Steve says.

“Well, I would’ve called literally anyone else, but the tower’s empty, and Happy’s taking Pepper to the airport, and you know how bad traffic is this time of the afternoon–” Tony’s stomach clenches, and he has to lunge for the kitchen sink before he dry heaves.

“Tony?  You ok?”  

“Uh.”  Tony tears off a paper towel to wipe his mouth.  “This is usually where I’d lie and say ‘yes,’ but under these circumstances, I’m gonna have to go with no.  Can you drive me to the ER?”

There’s a beat of silence.  Then the sound of a locker door slamming shut.  Tony hears Steve take a breath, but all he says is, “On my way.”

_____

“I can walk, geez.”  Tony struggles not to roll his eyes as Steve bundles him into the back of the car.

“Don’t want you to strain yourself, though,” Steve says.  He runs around the car to the driver’s seat and hops in.  He looks at Tony in the rear-view mirror as he reverses down the driveway.  “Can you scale the pain?  One to ten?”

“I don’t know,” Tony mutters, irritation rising with bile in the back of his throat.  “Mostly feel like I’m gonna hurl.”

“Ok, here.”  Steve reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a plastic shopping bag.  

“God, really?  You’re turning into a regular soccer mom.”  But Tony takes the bag and holds it with shaking hands.

“But you’re not a carsick kid,” Steve says.  He turns onto the street and guns it past the speed limit.  Ordinarily Tony would tease him about it, but he’s having a hard enough time keeping his insides internal.

“Come on.  One to ten.”

“I’m saving it for the nurse,” Tony chokes.  “And what are you gonna do about it anyway–?”  He barely gets the words out before he gags.  A dribble of bile comes up and splatters into the bag in his lap.  It’s sour enough to make him retch again, though even less comes up.

“How many times have you thrown up already?”  Steve eyes him in the mirror again.

“Will you stop,” Tony wipes his mouth on his sleeve.  “With the questions?”

“Hey, you called me,” Steve reminds him.

“Yeah, to drive,” Tony snaps back.  “Not to…to interrogate me.”  He rides out another wave of nausea.

“I’ll give you a pass ‘cause you’re sick,” Steve says.  He slows the car and makes another turn.   “I’m glad you called.  You’re in pretty rough shape.”

“Yeah, yeah.  Don’t rub it in.”


	66. Bucky comes home to find Steve unconscious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heroverse, pre serum

“I’m home,” Bucky says as he opens the front door.  It’s probably not necessary, since everything’s loud in the tiny apartment, but he likes the sentiment.  He’d like to add ‘honey,’ but considering the proximity of the neighbors, he holds back.

“Steve?”  Usually he’s bustling around the kitchen or drawing at the table, but today the apartment seems empty.  Bucky wonders if maybe he’s not feeling well and went to lie down.  He leaves his lunch pail on the counter and toes off his dirty boots before going to check.  

The light’s off in the bedroom, but it’s empty too.  And there’s no indent in the perfectly tucked quilt.  Paranoia raises the hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck.  He shouldn’t be so worried.  Steve can take care of himself.  Usually.  

There’s on place left to check before he should be truly concerned.  Bucky returns to the short hall and crosses to the bathroom.  The door’s slightly open and the lights are off there as well.  Bucky steps inside and fumbles for the light switch.  Before he can flip it on, he trips over something and catches himself on the wall.  

“Stevie?  What the hell?”  Bucky gets the light on, but he doesn’t need it to know something’s terribly wrong.  Steve’s pale and almost lifeless on the floor.  There’s sick in the toilet and on his shirt, but Bucky doesn’t care.  He sinks to his knees and pulls Steve into his lap, slapping his cheeks and pressing his ear to his chest.  

His heart is beating.  He’s warm.  Too warm.  Bucky reaches up with one hand to dampen a towel in the sink and gently sponge Steve’s forehead.

After a moment, Steve’s eyelids flutter.  “Buck?” he rasps.

“You can’t go scaring me like that,” Bucky says in a rush. 

“Didn’t…didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”  Bucky sighs.  “I just…don’t want to lose you, you know?”

“I know,” Steve smiles weakly.  “You won’t.”

 

 


	67. Thunder reminds Steve of the war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heroverse

It’s been raining for hours, but the black clouds only grow thicker as the day wears on.  Steve puts on coffee even though it’s three in the afternoon, then stands at the sliding glass door and peers into the backyard.

“Hey.”  Bucky drops his chin onto Steve’s shoulder and slips an arm around his waist.  “What’s up?”

“Just…checking on the yard.”

“Ok…?” Bucky says.  “Looks fine to me.”

“Yeah,” Steve says with a sigh.  

“You alright?” Bucky presses.

“Yeah, I’m fine.  I’m–”  But at that moment, lightning splits the sky and thunder booms barely a second later.  Steve can’t help the stiffness that runs through his muscles.  Bucky takes half a step back, as if unsure if Steve’s about to lash out.

“Hey, Buck, I’m sorry.” Steve flounders for words.  But thunder sounds again, and he grits his teeth to keep from jumping.  

“You’re scared, aren’t you?”  Bucky’s brows knit together, and only concern shows on his face.

“I…no,” Steve lies.  “Just loud.”

“And it sounds like being bombed.”  Bucky refuses to break eye contact.  

Steve bites his lip.

“Yeah, I remember that too,” Bucky says.  He pulls Steve toward him again, wrapping his arms protectively around Steve’s chest.  “Don’t think about it.  It’s over.  You’re ok.”

“Yeah,” Steve reluctantly agrees.  “I am.”

 

 


	68. Pre-Serum Steve takes care of Bucky with heat exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heroverse, pre-serum

Steve turns eagerly when he hears the apartment door open.  He leaves his drawing half-finished and hurries to greet Bucky.  “Welcome home,” he says, grinning as Bucky shuffles inside.

“Hm.”  Bucky barely acknowledges him, tossing his lunch pail onto the table and heading for the sofa.

“Buck?  You alright?”

Bucky sits heavily.  He rests his elbows on his knees, then takes off his cap and drops his head into his hands.  “’M tired,” he says.  “’S hot out.”  He undoes the top couple buttons of his shirt, then goes back to holding his head.

“This isn’t like you,” Steve says, narrowing his eyes.  “Do you feel sick?”

“Mm.  Sort of.”

If Bucky’s admitting to anything, Steve knows it’s serious.  “Come on,” he says.  “Let’s get you somewhere I won’t have to clean up after you, huh?”  He grabs Bucky’s wrist and drags him toward the bathroom.

Bucky’s gagging before he sinks to his knees in front of the toilet.  He folds his arms over the seat and heaves hard, his spine arching and sending ripples through his sweat-stained shirt.  

Steve lays his fingers across the back of Bucky’s neck.  The skin is red and dry and hot.  “Did you get sunburned?” Steve asks.

“I don’t…don’t think so,” Bucky chokes.  He retches again, then spits.  He gingerly pushes himself away from the toilet.  “Sorry, Stevie.”

“Hey, if you’re sick, you’re sick,” Steve says.  He finds a rag and dampens it in the sink.  He goes in to wipe the sweat from Bucky’s forehead, but it’s hot and dry too.

“Buck,” Steve shakes his head.  “Did you drink water while you were working today?”

“Nah,” Bucky says hoarsely.  “No time.  We had some–”  He pauses to swallow a sick belch.  “Some extra loads…”  Bucky’s breathing picks up pace, and he flings himself over the toilet again.  It doesn’t take long for his heaves to turn dry.  

Steve pats him on the back.  “You gotta take care of yourself, Buck.”

Bucky sputters, then surfaces.  “Why?  I got you, don’t I?”

“You do,” Steve acquiesces.  “But that’s still no excuse.”


	69. Bucky goes on a mission.  Steve has the stomach flu.  Sam is the backup.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heroverse

It’s the first time Bucky’s been called for a mission without Steve.  He’s not going on his own, and for that Steve’s grateful.  He’d waved from the front porch as Bucky had bounded out and hopped into the passenger seat of Nat’s glossy sports car.

Now that Bucky’s been gone for a couple hours, Steve has a strange sense of deja vu.  But rather than harkening back to the days before Bucky came home, his mind transports him even further into the past.  He feels like he should start cooking something in case Bucky’s hungry when he gets back from his long shift on the docks.  

Steve shakes his head.  SHIELD will probably feed Bucky something on the plane ride home.  Or he and Nat will go for pizza.  

The nostalgia doesn’t fade, though, and Steve gets out his sketchbook.  It’s not a means to pay the bills anymore, so his sketches have become self-indulgent.  There aren’t any landscapes, but he’s done more than one rendition of the topography of Bucky’s bare chest.  

Steve flips to a blank page and makes a few lines, starting a stylized copy of the cover of the TIME magazine on the coffee table.  It doesn’t hold Steve’s interest, though.  His head is beginning to throb.  He wonders if he’d be better off taking an afternoon nap.  

There are more resources at his disposal nowadays, and it seems a pity not to take advantage of them.  Steve puts away his pencils and swallows 8 motrin while he waits for the kurig to drip out a cup of dark roast.  If that doesn’t help, he’ll lie down.  

Steve stands by the window and sips on his coffee.  It’s cloudy outside, but bright.  Or maybe it’s just his headache.  Drinking seems to be making it worse, moving the throb from his crown down to his temples, then his ears, and into his jaw.  

The next time Steve swallows, nothing goes down.  He claps his hand over his mouth, tasting coffee mixed with bile burst into his throat.  He sprints to the kitchen sink, gripping the faucet to keep his balance as his head spins.  He barely has time to spit out the remnants before he’s heaving all over again.

Steve rakes the back of his hand across his clammy forehead.  He’s shaking all over.  He wants nothing more than to crawl into bed and curl up, but he doesn’t trust his stomach.  It still bubbles uneasily as he pants over the sink.  If he doesn’t throw up again in five minutes, he’ll call it quits and lie down.

Steve dry heaves after three.  Then he can’t stop.  He bends double, the edge of the counter digging into the waist of his jeans.  Strings of mucous and bile hang from his lips.  He’s too dizzy to let go and wipe them.  

Steve coughs weakly, then vertigo swells out of nowhere, and his tailbone connects with the floor.  “Dammit,” he whispers, breathing carefully so as not to upset his stomach again.  He feels the shape of his phone in his back pocket.  Steve pulls it out so he can at least sit comfortably.  

He’s still reeling as he looks down at the device.  Another resource, right at his fingertips.  Ordinarily, Steve wouldn’t dream of calling for help.  But ordinarily he doesn’t end up on his ass on the kitchen floor, either.  

Steve waits as the phone rings out.  “Hey,” Sam’s voice answers.  “Don’t tell me you need a distraction ‘cause your boy’s out on a mission without you.”

“Uh, no,” Steve murmurs.

“You ok, man?”

“Uh,” Steve says again.

“I’m gonna go with a negative,” Sam says.  “What do you need?  Stitches?  A ride to the ER?”

“Um,” Steve struggles to remember the word.  “Pepto?”

Sam laughs.  “I can do that.  Hold tight, big guy.”


	70. Bucky struggles in front of T'Challa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing Moments

Bucky’s favorite thing about the hut at the top of the hill is the view.  Partly because of its beauty, and partly because he can see for miles in every direction.

He’s on his knees pulling weeds when he notices T’Challa walking his way.  Bucky has plenty of time to stand up and dust himself off, but he chooses to keep working.  He doesn’t look up until the king speaks.

“Sargent Barnes.”

“What do you want?”  Bucky doesn’t mean for it to come out so surly.  He’s still out of practice when it comes to pleasantries.

“Just to talk.”  T’Challa smiles.  He keeps a respectable distance and gracefully lowers himself to the dirt.  He yanks a weed from the earth and adds it to Bucky’s garbage pile.

“Oh.”  Bucky’s hackles rise instinctively.  “What about?”

“How you’re doing.  How you’re finding it here.”  T’Challa shrugs.  “What you’re planning to plant in your garden.”  The king smiles, and Bucky narrows his eyes, searching for intention behind his teeth.  It could be kindness.  Or it could be intelligence-gathering.  But trying to suss out the difference makes his head hurt.

“What if…” Bucky starts.  “What if I don’t want to talk?”

“Then maybe I’ll come back tomorrow,” T’Challa says.  “You might need help with planting.”

“I…”  Bucky shakes his head.  His heart hammers against his ribs.  It’s not a threat, but it feels like one, hanging over him and making his blood run cold as anticipation turns to panic and back again.  “I don’t…”

His hand is trembling.  Bucky balls it into a fist.  “I don’t remember, ok?”  He hates how quiet his voice is, how the words quiver on his tongue.  “I don’t know anything else.”  He rolls back onto his feet, and it’s by sheer luck that he doesn’t fall over.  The first steps are stumbling, but Bucky makes it around the back of his hut.  He leans against the wall and squeezes his eyes shut, but he can still see T’Challa’s confused face.

He’s not the enemy.  Bucky knows that.  But now he’s gone and fucked it up because sometimes his wires get crossed and he can’t tell safety from danger, friend from foe.  He’s working on it.  He has to override his programming.  Or at least that’s what the nice young girl in the lab told him.

 _Shuri_ , Bucky reminds himself.   _The princess.  The king’s sister.  The king you just disrespected.  Because you can’t remember.  Because you’re worthless…_

Bucky lets out a groan of frustration.  He pushes his hair off his sweaty forehead and slides back into a crouch.  He needs to breathe.  In and out and let it go.  But there’s a lump in his throat so big it makes him feel sick.

“Sargent Barnes?”  A pair of sandaled feet round the corner.  “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Bucky chokes.  Then, “Don’t…don’t come any closer.”

“Alright,” T’Challa says.  “I won’t.”

Bucky spends a moment unsure if he’s going to cry or vomit, but in the end he takes a breath.  He lowers his head to his knees.

“I’m not afraid of you, Sargent Barnes.”  There’s a rustling as T’Challa sits in the grass.

“You should be,” Bucky mumbles.

“Maybe I’m foolish,” T’Challa says.  “But I’m not afraid.  I would trust you with my life.”

Bucky tries not to think of all the ways he could let the king down.

“Do you trust me with yours?”

The silence goes heavy as T’Challa’s words sink in.  He almost says  _what life?,_  but he knows what he means. The therapy.  The garden.  The slow steps back toward…not exactly recovery.   Functionality.

Bucky lifts his head.  Sighs.  And slowly says, “Yes.”


	71. Steve twists his ankle on a mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heroverse

The battle is no problem, but the curb turns out to be Steve’s nemesis.  He’s tired.  His mind’s retreated to somewhere between the showers and the selection of midnight snacks, and his lack of attention to the present moment comes back to bite him.  Or rather it snatches the toe of his boot and sends him skip-hopping, then setting down his foot in a way that both looks and feels all kinds of wrong.  

Bucky grabs Steve’s bicep.  It steadies him, but the damage is already done.  Pain lances up from Steve’s ankle as he carefully lifts his foot.

“Whoa, there,” Bucky says, grinning while he works to keep his voice serious.  “You ok?”

“Yeah,” Steve says breathlessly.  He tests the waters, putting a fraction of his weight on the injured foot, but lightning zings straight up to his knee.  He hops on his good leg to rebalance.

“Bullshit.”  Bucky yanks Steve’s arm around his shoulders and loops Steve’s waist into the crook of his elbow.  “You always were a klutz.”

“Hey,” Steve tries to admonish, but he doesn’t have a lot of attention to spare.  It’s just a sprain, and he’ll be fine in a day or two.  A few hours with SHIELD’s medical technology.  But he’d be lying if he said it didn’t hurt like hell.  

“Nah, you’re still just a kid, taking on more than you can handle,” Bucky says.  “What were you thinking, kicking the sidewalk like that?”

“Yeah, yeah.”  Steve slaps him weakly with his free hand.  

Bucky helps him limp toward the jet.  The stairs up to the open door look daunting in Steve’s current position.  He takes a deep breath, but Bucky scoops him up bridal-style without a thought.

“It don’t mean nothing,” Bucky says.  “Carrying you over a threshold and all.”  He shoots Steve a sideways smile.

“It’s just because I’m a sissy and turned my ankle, right?”  Steve grins back.

“Yup.”  Bucky deposits Steve in a seat and flops down beside him.  “That’s it.”


	72. Groot has trouble telling Quill he's sick

“I am Groot.”

“I know,” Quill sighs, looking over at the co-pilot seat where the lanky tree is sitting.  “And put your seatbelt on.”

“I am Groot.”

“Yeah…”  It takes a lot of self control not to say  _shut up_.

Two minutes later, “I am Groot.”

“I got it,” Quill says, doing a poor job of masking his frustration.

The ship’s back port opens, and shuts, then Rocket’s yammering starts up before he’s even divested himself of his spacesuit.

“Look, your daddy’s home,” Quill says to the tree.  “Go bother him about it.”

“Who’re you calling ‘daddy?’” Rocket asks, a note of disgust in his tone.  “I ain’t nobody’s daddy.”  Groot bounds up to him, and his tune changes.  “Yeah?  Whada’ya want?”

“I am Groot.”

“He’s been saying that for an hour,” Quill complains.

“Hey, shut up.”  Rocket flaps his paw in Quill’s direction.  

“I am Groot.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I am Groot.”

“Yeah, uh-huh.”

“I am Groot.”

“Uh-oh.  Quill, get the bucket out of the closet.  The one with the mop nobody ever uses.”

“Why?”  Quill asks.  “I’m piloting the damn ship!”

“Quill, now,” Rocket says.

“You get it.”

“I am Groot.”

“Quill–”  But Rocket’s cut off with the sound of retching, then liquid hitting the floor.

Realization hits Quill along with the stench.

“I fucking told you so,” Rocket spits.

“Well, no, technically you didn’t,” Quill replies.

“He told you.  Like a hundred times,” Rocket argues.  Quill hears him patting Groot on the back.

Quill can’t argue with that one.  “Yeah, he sighs.  I guess he probably did.”


	73. Steve doesn't have time to say hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heroverse

Bucky hears the key scrape in the lock.  “Hey,” he calls over his shoulder, then looks back down at the potato he’s peeling.  “Good timing.  I just started dinner.”

He expects to hear Steve untying his boots and setting down his bags, but instead, he hears hurried footsteps.  Bucky’s brows knit together in confusion.  Then Steve comes hurtling in from the entryway and pushes Bucky away from the sink.  

“Whoa, ok.”  Bucky drops the potato and flattens his back to the wall.  “What’s that all about?”

Steve braces his hands on either side of the sink and leans forward, his spine arching as he heaves.  Vomit splatters down on top of the potato peels, and as soon as the shock wears off, Bucky’s own stomach clenches in sympathy.  

“Aw, Stevie.”  Bucky pats Steve on the back.  “What happened?  You sick?”

Steve spits, then shrugs.  “I don’t know.  I just feel–” He swallows convulsively.  “Really bad.”

“Ok, we can deal with that.”  Bucky waits till he’s finished with the next wave, then hands Steve a dish towel.  

“Sorry,” Steve mumbles into the cloth.

“It’s alright.”  Bucky looks around at the kitchen.  “Change of plans, that’s all.  I’ll clean this up and meet you upstairs, ok?”

Steve nods weakly.  “Ok.”


	74. Tony checks in on a sick Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heroverse, Avengers Tower

Tony knocks on the door.  

“Come in,” Steve replies.  

Tony opens the door slowly.  Steve sits in bed, a book open in his lap and the radio quietly playing classical music.  

“We have cable, you know,” Tony says.  “History Channel.”

Steve laughs, but it turns into a cough.  He takes a tissue from the box on his bedside table and holds it over his mouth.  He even hacks politely.  

“Nah,” Steve says, throwing away the kleenex.  “Sometimes some good old-fashioned R&R is what does the trick.”

Tony shrugs.  “I still like History Channel.”

“Is everything ok?” Steve asks.  “Is there a mission, or–”

“Hey, hold your horses,” Tony says.  “I’m not allowed to just come say hello?”

“Oh,”  Steve blinks.  “Of course you are.”

“Actually, I’m here to ask if you want chicken noodle soup.  It’s ordered from the deli down the street, but it was probably made from scratch.  By someone.  At some point.”

“Thanks,” Steve says.  “That sounds perfect.”

“Good.  Glad we agree on something.”  Tony grins as he closes the door.


	75. Steve catches a graze from a bullet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heroverse

Bucky grabs Steve by the collar of his uniform and shoves him against the wall.  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, punk?”

“Buck, it’s fine.”  Steve uses his thumb to wipe the dribble of blood from the wound on his arm.  It’s maybe an inch long.  Steve’s honestly more worried about the tear in his sleeve.  “It’s barely even bleeding.”

“It could still be serious.  The bullet could’ve been poisoned, or–”

“It’s fine,” Steve says again.  “Take a breath.  Calm down.”  Bucky’s more worked up about it than he is.

“Don’t you be telling me…”  Bucky shakes his head.  “Don’t you be thinking I can’t… Don’t you be  _protecting_  me…”

“Buck.”  Steve grips his shoulder.  “I don’t think you’re incapable.  I think you can do anything you want.”  He pauses.  “It’s just instinct.  I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“You’re stupid,” Bucky says.  His mouth sets in a serious line, then one corner twitches upward.  “You were always doing that, even when you were too little to do any good.  You gotta grow some common sense.”

“Hey, now.”  Steve can’t help but grin back.  “You’re the one who took all the stupid to England with you.”

“Must’ve missed a little,” Bucky chuckles.  He fumbles with his uniform for a moment and tears a strip from the hem of his white undershirt.

“Buck,” Steve complains, shaking his head.

“Hey.  Let me.”  Bucky winds the fabric around the cut on Steve’s arm, neatly tucking in the end.  “There.”

“Happy now?” Steve asks.

Bucky smiles again.  “Little bit.”


	76. Bruce interrupts Tony's sick day

Tony should’ve gone back to his bedroom.  He should’ve taken his coffee mug and the fluffy blanket from the back of the couch and laid down in bed.

But no.  The allure of the 80-inch TV in the living room had won out, so that’s where he set up camp.  He’d swallowed a dose and a half of dayquil, then tipped his head back while half-listening to reruns of Scrubs.

“Hey, Tony?”  Bruce is out of breath, and he brings a strong smell of burning plastic that even Tony’s clogged nose can detect.  “Do you have a spare biohazard bin?  Mine melted.”

“What?”  Tony opens his eyes, unsure if this is for real or just a fever dream.  

“And I need a mop,” Bruce says.  

“Ok…”  Tony blinks at him, then rubs his eyes.  His head still aches.  “Ask Pepper.  She knows where everything is…”

“You ok?” Bruce asks, taking in Tony’s current home base.

“I’m trying to take a sick day,” Tony says, irritation feeding into his voice.

“Oh.  I knew something was up when you didn’t run downstairs to see the damage…”

“I have a cold, I’m not dead.”  Tony rolls his eyes.  Then, “Text me a picture?”

“Sure,” Bruce laughs.  “I can do that.”


	77. Tony powers through a concussion with a little help from Steve

“Jesus Christ,” Tony mutters through gritted teeth as the bots work to extricate him from his dented chest plate.  “I did not program you to be this slow.”

The bots whir sympathetically.  It’s actually kind of cute, and Tony regrets insulting them.  They’re just blurry mechanical pets, after all.

What’s he thinking?  They’re holding him up, wasting time that could be spent seeking out an Excedrin and a cup of coffee and a nap.  How long has it been since that blast had sent him flying head-first into a wall?  An hour?  Two hours?  Why is it so hard to keep track of time during battles?

“Whoa!”  The bots succeed in removing Tony’s boots, and now that there’s no support around his noodle legs, he tumbles off the dais in the center of the lab.  Tony reaches desperately for something, anything, to break his fall.  His computer chair looks like it might be in reach, but once Tony extends his hand, he realizes it’s just faulty depth perception.

“Hey, I got you.”  An arm swings out of nowhere and catches Tony around the chest.  “You ok?”

Tony lets gravity guide him backward against the solid body.  He recognizes the shield in the guy’s hand before he recognizes his voice, but it all clicks eventually.

“Steve?”  Tony sincerely hopes it’s the right name.  “What’re you doing down here?”  Is he slurring, or has the lab developed an echo?

“I was gonna sand out the scratches.”  Steve hefts his shield, which definitely shows wear from the battle.  He sets it on the edge of the lab bench and gets both hands on Tony’s shoulders.  “But, more to the point.  Are you alright?”

“You can’t sand out fucking vibranium,”  Tony laughs.  He shakes his head, and the room swims before his eyes.  Nausea rises in his throat, and it’s only a frantic swallow that keeps him from embarrassing himself further.  

“And you can’t work with a team unless you’re honest.”  Steve drags Tony to the couch in the corner of the lab and bundles him down onto it, then sits on the coffee table so they’re knee-to-knee.  

“Look at me,” Steve says.

Tony tries, but everything’s too bright, and he squints after a few seconds.

“Good enough.”  Steve gets to his feet.

“Am I clear, nurse Cap?”  Tony makes to follow suit, but he barely lifts himself up before he collapses onto the sofa again.

“No.  Enough evidence of a concussion to ground you for the next 48 hours.”

“But–”

“SHIELD policy, not mine,” Steve says.  “But I’ll get you some water.  Aspirin, if you want.  And I make a mean chicken noodle soup.”

“Don’t talk to me about food,” Tony says as he tries not to gag.  

“Ok,” Steve chuckles.  He disappears for a second, then nudges the bathroom trash can between Tony’s feet.  “But let me know if you’re hungry later.”

Tony gives him a thumbs up.  But his body can’t take it any more, and he retches.  He changes to giving Steve the finger.  Tony isn’t sure if he can trust his ears, but he thinks he can hear Steve laughing.


	78. Clint strong-arms Nat into caring for her gunshot wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Creedless Assassins

“You gotta listen to me once in a while,” Clint mutters as he pulls one of Nat’s arms around his neck.  It’s a miracle she’s still on her feet with how much blood she’s lost.  The bullet clipped her thigh at the beginning of the shootout.  It took them almost half an hour to pick the HYDRA agents off the neighboring rooftop one by one.  “Your sharpshootin’s not so good when you’re shaky.”

“Fuck you,” Nat says.  She presses her lips together.  “I hit as many as you did.”

“And took twice as long.”  Clint slips his forearm beneath her knees, trying not to jostle her would too much.  “Really, Nat, you should’ve put pressure on this and let me finish ‘em off.”

“Can you just…”  Nat gulps convulsively.  She gives Clint a dirty look, then her eyes unfocus and she rests her forehead on his shoulder.  “Can you just shut up?”

Clint carries her to the stairwell.  As soon as they’re safely off the roof, he props her against the wall and digs in his pockets for first aid supplies.  

“What’re you doing?”  Nat tries to push herself up, but her arms tremble to much to make any headway.  “We should get out of here.  There could be more operatives, and they know our location now…”  She trails off with a shallow breath.  

“Nope.”  Clint slaps a pad of gauze over Nat’s wound and presses down.

Nat cries out in pain before she grits her teeth and regains control.  “Fuck,” she hisses.  Her shoulders twitch, and she heaves up a weak stream of bile down the front of her tactical vest.

“Nice.”  Clint offers a sympathetic smile.  He gives her another gauze pad to wipe her mouth.  “You gonna sit still now?”

Nat lets out a huff.  “Only as long as I have to.”


	79. Loki's injured and Thor knows he's not faking

When Loki falls, Thor assumes it’s a joke.  Despite their different fighting styles, Loki’s still fierce in battle.  

“Get up, Brother,” Thor shouts over his shoulder as he prepares to launch his hammer at the enemy.  “There’s no time for games.”

“No.”  Loki’s voice is tight and edged in pain.  He lifts his head, but stays down, his arms wrapped around his knee.  “I– it hurts.”

“What?”  Thor stops before the hammer leaves his grip.  He turns and sprints to his brother’s side.  He looks from Loki’s ashen face to his trembling hands.  

Loki whimpers in protest when Thor forces him to let go of the injury.  He grips Loki’s wrist, but once he sees what they’re dealing with, he squeezes his brother’s hand in both of his.  His trousers are bloody, the joint of the knee all wrong.  And the agony in Loki’s eyes is something not eve a trickster could fake.

“Don’t look at it,” Thor says, as much to himself as to Loki.  “Look at me.  We’ll get out of here, we’ll get back to Asgard.”  He wonders if he can scoop Loki into his arms without causing more damage.  “You’ll be healed.  You’ll be fine.”

“Yes,” Loki repeats shakily.  “I’ll be fine.”


	80. Peter Quill navigates grief and drunkenness badly

It’s a week after they buried Yondu.  In the figurative sense.  They buried Ego more literally, but that loss doesn’t have the same grief attached to it.  That one’s rooted in anger.  

The anger makes Quill do things.  Yesterday he busted his knuckles when he decided to fight hand-to-hand instead of with his usual weapons.  He still wanted to hit things after all the enemies went down, so he punched a wall too.  Today his hand’s swollen and wrapped in bandages, but that’s ok.  It barely hurts now that he’s halfway through his 12-pack.

Quill doesn’t know what he’s drinking except that it was cheap and the caps are twist-off.  He’s clumsy enough without having a bottle opener to deal with.  He finishes off another and throws the empty bottle toward the trash.  He misses, and it rolls across the floor.

“Good one,” Rocket snipes at him from the pilot’s chair.  “You’re real good at keeping this place clean, you know.”

Quill sighs.  It’s not worth responding, but the words still make his bad attitude flare up again.  He clamps a fresh bottle between his knees while he uncaps it, then takes a long draught.  He quells a burp with his sleeve.

“Yep, real fucking clean,” Rocket repeats.

“Hey.”  Quill’s thin patience evaporates.  “Just…just fucking shut up.”  The raccoon’s frustrating him now, but even if Quill succeeds in making him be quiet, the anger’s still going to be there.  And if he pounds Rocket, he’s going to regret it.  

He regrets not appreciating Yondu more.  Quill takes another sip.  He was a bad kid.  He’s Ego’s kid.  Ego was bad.  Quill hates him.  He hates his mom for falling in love with him.  

Guilt turns the alcohol to sick bubbles in Quill’s stomach.  He misses his mom.  He misses Yondu.  He misses last week, before he had to think about any of this.

Rocket swears again, but this time it’s about asteroids, not beer bottles.  The ship swerves suddenly, and bitter alcohol and bile rush into Quill’s throat.  He doesn’t trust his drunken legs to carry him to the bathroom, so he tips the rest of the bottles out of their cardboard box and retches pathetically into it.  For one second he feels so sick that everything else leaves his mind.  Then Quill’s stomach stops contracting long enough for him to breathe, and he’s hot and mad again.  An angry tear rolls down his cheek.

“What’re they thinking, dumping their fucking space rocks in my goddamn flight path,” Rocket mutters.  Then.  “What, are you crying back there?”

Quill hurriedly wipes his eyes, then clutches the box to his chest as he heaves again.  “No, you idiot,” he chokes.  “I’m puking.”

He looks up long enough to see Rocket turn back around to face the windshield.  “Yeah,” the raccoon whispers.  That’s what I thought.”


	81. Tony's forced to check on a sick Natasha

 

 

“Sir?”

“Is there a security breach?”  Tony doesn’t look up from the helmet on the lab bench.

“No, sir, the facility’s perimeter is sound,” FRIDAY answers

“Then why are you bothering me at…”  Tony squints at the time display on the holographic screen projected in front of him.  “Two in the morning?”

“There’s unusual activity in the kitchen you should be aware of.”

“I thought you said no security breach.”

“Not that kind of activity, sir.”

“Ok, fine.”  Tony sets down his screwdriver.  “Roll the footage.”  

The view from the camera set high above the sink shows on the screen.  At first Tony doesn’t see anything.  “You’re not gonna show me a sex tape or something, are you ?” 

“Not that kind of activity either,” FRIDAY says in her perpetually upbeat monotone.

“Then what am I looking–?”  Tony cuts off when a blur crosses the dark kitchen and bends double over the basin.  The view is mostly hair and shuddering shoulders, but the sound fills in the rest.  For once Tony wishes the microphone on the camera was a bit less sensitive.  

“Oh.”  Tony blinks.  There’s only one person with a curly auburn ponytail like that. 

“Agent Romanov has not put out a distress call.”  FRIDAY’s programming doesn’t allow her to imbue the statement with a leading inflection, but the unspoken words are still clear enough.  

“But it might be good if somebody went up and made sure she didn’t choke,” Tony sighs.  He gets to his feet.  “That would be a funny headline, though.  Romanov, a billion years with the KGB, a thousand more with SHIELD, countless hits to her name, dies of killer hangover…”

“She won’t find that amusing, sir,” FRIDAY says.

“I know.”  Tony starts for the stairs.  “That’s why I said it down here.”

_____

Tony slaps the wall when he steps off the elevator.  The machines in the facility are modern and silent, and everyone knows it’s bad news to sneak up on an assassin, even when she’s preoccupied.

True to Tony’s expectations, Nat whirls around, dragging one hand across her lips and balling the other into a fist, ready to fight.  Her reflexes haven’t slowed a lick.  Tony’s spent time wondering how much is training and how much is instinct.  He ponders the question again as recognition flashes in Nat’s eyes and her body seems to think it’s safe to start gagging again.

“Stark,” Nat coughs into the depths of the sink.  “What the fuck?”

“I don’t know.”  Tony shrugs even though she can’t see him.  “What the fuck’s up with you?”

Nat spits.  “Nothing.  I’m fine.”  The hand that’s not clutching the counter is back down by her side, but her walls are up.

“Yeah, you look totally fine.”  Tony rolls his eyes.  “We have pepto, you know.  Just got a delivery of groceries and stuff.”

“Whatever.”  Nat’s shoulders twitch as she tries to stifle another heave.

“Vodka, too,” Tony offers.  “If you just want to, you know.  Get it up faster.”

“I’ll just—”  Nat’s breath hitches.  “Ride it out in my room.”  She presses her lips together and brushes past Tony.

“Hey, at least run the disposal.”  Tony makes a face at the back of her head.

“Oh, fuck you.”  Nat’s arm snakes protectively around her stomach as she bypasses the elevator and stomps toward the stairs.  The heavy fire door slams behind her.

“Yeah,” Tony mutters.  He flips on the faucet with one finger, then presses the button to initiate the roar of the garbage disposal.  “Yeah.  Fuck me.”


	82. Tony's cough gets on Bruce's nerves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Science Bros

Tony finishes blowing his nose and lobs the tissue at the trashcan.  Then he peels off his latex gloves and tosses them in as well.  He uses his feet to propel his swivel chair across the lab to pull a fresh pair from the box affixed to the wall.  He barely gets them on when a deep cough bursts up from his chest and threatens to gag him with thick mucous.  

“Shit,” Tony mutters.  He grabs another Kleenex and holds it over his mouth.  

Bruce looks up from the test tube in his hand.  He sighs and glances away as Tony changes his gloves again.  

“It’s just a stupid cold.  I’m find,” Tony says thickly, picking up a pipette and a graduated cylinder.  “How much of this do you need?”

“I can add it.”  Bruce fumbles for a test tube holder.  “Don’t worry about it.”

“Nah, let a master work,” Tony says.  He prepares to transfer some of the liquid in the cylinder, but another coughing fit hits.  Tony hastily buries his face in his elbow, not noticing the drips escaping from the tip of the pipette.

“Tony!”  Bruce’s fist crashes down on the lab bench, rattling the glassware.  “Watch what you’re doing!”  

Tony surfaces in time to watch a tiny damp spot turn to a smoking hole in the collar of Bruce’s lab coat.  “Sorry,” he say sheepishly.  

“You can’t work like this,” Bruce says.  “I can’t work when you’re like this.”  A vein throbs in his neck, and a green tinge begins to spread from it.

“Whoa, buddy.”  Tony pushes the chemicals away from himself and raising his hands in a placating gesture.  “It’s ok.”  He tries not to cough. “I’m ok.”

“You have fucking pneumonia.  Or bronchitis.”  Bruce shakes his head.  “I’m not that kind of doctor, but you gotta stop contaminating all my shit…”  He seems to realize he’s on the verge of a different kind of disaster, and he pushes his chair back and rests his head in his hands.

“Ok.”  Tony clears his throat.  “Do you, uh, want to be left alone now?  Or I can send Nat down.”  He stands up and slowly backs away, just in case the suggestion isn’t taken so well.  “I’m gonna go upstairs and see if Pepper can set up one of those FaceTime-a-doctor things…”

“Yeah,” Bruce sighs.  “I’m sorry.  Thanks, Tony.”

“Alright, glad we’re good.”  Tony’s still glad to take his leave.


	83. Rhodey helps Tony through a panic attack

JARVIS’s report does nothing to still the rapid thrumming of Tony’s heart.  So what if his vitals are fine?  He doesn’t feel fine.  As a matter of fact, he still feels like he’s dying.  

Tony releases himself from his suit just as Rhodey appears in the parking lot.  He spies Tony and rushes over in time to keep him from bashing his knees on the pavement.

“Ok, easy,” Rhodey says, sinking into a squat by Tony’s shoulder.  “What happened?”

“God,” Tony gasps.  “Fuck.  When people say…panic attack…” He shakes his head.  “It doesn’t seem like it’d feel like…like this…”  Tony’s ability to form words fades as the tightness in his chest leaches into his throat.  He swallows.  He feels sick.

“Ok,” Rhodey intones.  “Ok.  I got you.”  He shifts so one arm encircles Tony’s shoulders from the back, and the other from the front.  “You’re safe.”

“Hm.”  Rhodey’s words make sense.  He sounds like he knows what he’s doing.  The minuscule area of Tony’s brain that’s still firing reminds him what his friend does for a living.  Of course he knows what he’s doing.  But it doesn’t make it any easier to believe him.  

“I’m gonna count you down, and you’re gonna breathe.  Sound good?”  

Good is a bit of a stretch, but it’s manageable.  Maybe.  

“Ten,” Rhodey starts.  “In and out, come on.  Nine.”

Tony’s so nauseous he’s afraid of what will happen when he opens his mouth, but he does anyway.  He sucks in the winter air between his gritted teeth.

“Good.  Eight.  You got this.  Seven.”  Rhodey moves his hand and taps his palm between Tony’s shoulder blades.  

Tony’s lungs seem to get the message, and he exhales.  Then inhales.  It’s easy now.  He wonders why he forgot how to do that to begin with.

“Alright.  See, it’s ok.”  Rhodey finishes counting, then slowly gives Tony a few feet of space.  “You back with me?” he asks.

“Yup.”  Tony doesn’t trust himself to say anything more.  He doesn’t really want to either.

“You ok to get back home?  I can give you a ride.”

“Yeah, I’m good.”  Tony gets to his feet.

“I don’t mind,” Rhodey says.  “You don’t have to talk about it or anything.”

“I know.”  Tony steps toward his suit.  “But your car’s slow.”


	84. Bucky's too run down to complete a mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heroverse

“You good?”  

Bucky feels Steve’s hand on his arm.  He hears the words.  The fact that it’s a question doesn’t sink in, though, and he keeps staring blankly ahead.

“Buck.  You ok?”

“Hm?”  He finally turns to look.

Steve’s brows knit together.  “If you need a rest, it’s fine,” he says.  “This is a long one for all of us.”  He nods toward Thor, who’s pausing to draw in a breath before lobbing his hammer at an opponent.  

“I’m ok,” Bucky says automatically.

“You haven’t been sleeping so well,” Steve continues in a whisper.  “We could all probably use a break.”

“I don’t get tired.”  Bucky forces himself to grin.  He’s glad he can’t see himself; it probably looks more like a grimace.

Steve almost smiles.  Not quite.  “Well.  Let me know if you do.”

Bucky plans on saying ok.  But then a shadow moves in his peripheral vision, and he yanks the gun from his belt and rejoins the firefight.

He shoots off a few rounds and watches the opponent fall.  The armored goon doesn’t get back up, so Bucky’s work should be done here.  He should keep his head on a swivel and check his weapon to ensure he’s ready for the next one.  

But the world seems to stagnate around him.  The echo of his last shot resounds in his ears.  It’s not the usual ringing that follows the loud sound.  He can still hear it, the explosion replaying on a loop, hijacking the reel-to-reel in his brain.  The blue sky framing the cityscape begins to pale, the clouds spreading and the sun brightening until all he can see is whiteness.  

Something whooshes past Bucky’s cheek, and fear and paranoia send goosebumps down his arm.  He needs to run.  He needs to get out of there.  

Bucky lifts his foot, but it’s his head that moves.  Spinning and looping as he tips through space and finally crashes temple-first into the ground.  He feels the pain.  Then he feels nothing at all.

***

“Buck.  Oh god.”  

Someone grabs his shoulder.  Bucky flops onto his back.  The impact forces the air from his lungs and ignites a monstrous throb in his head.  “Ugh.”

“Can you open your eyes?”

Bucky tries.  It hurts.  But the blurry face above him is definitely Steve’s, and he definitely smiles when he sees Bucky’s lashes flutter.  It’s motivation to maintain the squint.

“Good,” Steve says.  Then, “Do you know where you are?  What happened?”

It’s hazy.  The street seems like a decent answer to both, and Bucky starts to say as much, but vertigo lands as soon as he opens his mouth.  He grits his teeth and throws himself toward one shoulder so he can heave without choking.  

Steve holds him up while Bucky gags.  He vomits twice, then dissolves into unproductive retches that leave his core trembling.  Eventually he collapses back into Steve’s arms.  

“‘m ok,” Bucky mumbles before Steve can ask.

“No, you’re not.  I already called for medevac.  You need–”

“Shush,” Bucky weakly cuts in.  He lifts his hand to quiet Steve’s lips, though his blurry vision leaves him brushing his fingers under Steve’s chin instead.

“But you’re really hurt,” Steve protests.  “You have to recognize your limits sometimes, Buck.”

“Hm.”  Bucky swallows nausea and goes for a grin again.  “You still worry too much.”


	85. No one notices Tony's fever until he's nearly delirious

Tony’s not begging for sympathy.  As a matter of fact, he’d be happy to just sniffle in peace by himself.  But as the day wears on, his throat starts to grate and his stomach turns flips.  He’s dizzy sitting in his swivel chair, and he can’t tell if the feeling’s from fever or skipping breakfast.  He’s cold.  And decidedly not hungry.

Tony’s body feels heavy and slow.  He barely makes it from the lab bench to the couch in the corner.  Even taking the elevator upstairs seems like too much, even if his bed will be softer and warmer.  He buries his ear in the sofa cushions and stares sideways at his phone.  

The FaceTime call rings for an inordinate amount of time before Pepper picks up.  “I’m getting my bags.  I’ll be home soon, just depends on traffic,” she says without even greeting him.  The bustle of LaGuardia creates a din on the other end of the call, and the video portion is jumpy as she walks toward baggage claim.  

Watching her makes Tony nauseous, so he just whispers, “Ok,” and hangs up.  

It’s rush hour.  It’ll take Pepper 90 minutes to get out of the city.  At least.  

He calls Rhodey, but he never picks up.

He tries Nat next.  Clint picks up and makes a shushing gesture before flipping the camera and showing him the redhead in outsized pink earmuffs standing aggressively at one end of the firing range.  The sound of her gun may as well put a bullet in Tony’s head.  He ends the call and closes his eyes to ride out the throbs.

Time must pass, because the next thing Tony knows, somebody’s shaking his shoulder.  

“Mr. Stark?  Oh my god, are you ok?  What happened?”  

“Huh?”  Peter stands over him, looking panicked.  Are they on a mission?  What’s the kid freaking out about now?  “Did…you get hurt?”

“What?  No!”  Peter nervously touches Tony’s forehead.  “I think you have a fever.  Are you sick?  Do you need help?”

It all comes rushing back.  Well, some of it.  He’d gone to lie down earlier.  He’d made some calls?  Maybe?  When was that?

“What…time is it?”  Tony tries to sit up, but he’s too dizzy.

“3:30,” Peter says.  “School just got out.”

“Oh.”  So he’s lost practically the whole day.  Tony vaguely recalls it being around 9 last he checked.  It’s bad, even for him.  “Yeah,” he admits.  “I think I’m sick.”


	86. Tony gets Bucky to come take care of a sick Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heroverse

It’s Steve’s turn to pick the movie, so of course Tony falls asleep.  It makes sense Steve would be interested in Darkest Hour, but no one else is particularly drawn in.  When Tony snaps awake, the dim living room seems empty.  He blinks in disorientation for a moment.  Then it becomes clear it’s not the swelling music of the end credits that woke him.  

Steve’s up against the wall, almost in the hallway.  He makes a terrible sound, a cough he’s obviously trying and failing to stifle, then something splatters onto the wood floor.  

“Oh my god.”  Tony squeezes his eyes shut.  When he opens them again, it’ll all be gone.  This has to be a bad dream.

But Steve retches again, and Tony’s forced to accept reality.  He braces himself, then asks FRIDAY to turn on the light.

Steve has one arm cradling his stomach.  Bile drips down his chin, and his entire frame is trembling.  Captain America.  With the shakes.  

Tony bypasses “are you ok?” and goes straight for “what the fuck?”

“I don’t…I’m so sorry,” Steve sputters.  “I thought it was just a stomachache, then I thought I could get to the bathroom…”  He shakes his head and wipes his mouth on his sleeve.  “This just…doesn’t happen.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”  Dumm-E can clean up the mess, that’s not the issue.  But what are you supposed to do when the resident supersoldier ends up rattled to his core, puking all over the living room?  

Steve swallows hard, the muscles in this throat working.

“You don’t have to, like, hold it down,” Tony tells him.  “I mean, it’s kinda late for that anyway.”

Steve still gives it his best shot, even though the gag winds up getting the better of him.

“You want me to get someone?”  Tony feels stupid standing there watching, but it also seems rude to leave him alone.  “Wilson?  He could, I don’t know, give you an IV or something.”

“Nah, I’m ok.”  But Steve’s chattering teeth tell another story.

“Or Barnes?  His therapy telecon thing should’ve been over a while ago.”

“No, Tony, I’m fine.”  Steve forces a smile.  “I just need a minute…”  He trails off, and Tony wonders if the man’s going to throw up some more or if he’s about to pass out.  At this point, either seems likely.

“Ok, well, I’m gonna get the bots up here,” Tony says, keeping his gaze on Steve’s face so he won’t have to look at the puddle on the floor.  

Once he’s in the hallway, he pulls his phone from his pocket.  The facility’s security system shows Barnes up in his room, listening to jazz.  Tony closes the app and opens a new text message.  

Come downstairs.  Steve needs you.

He opens the security system again once the message sends.  The dot representing Barnes’ phone crosses his room and immediately heads toward the elevator.

“One job done,” Tony mutters to himself.  Then he starts for the basement to grab Dumm-E for the cleanup.


	87. The Guardians don't understand Quill's stomach bug

Quill wakes with sweat on his brow and a throb behind his forehead.  He barely sits up in his bunk before his stomach jumps into his throat and he has to sprint for the ship’s tiny bathroom.  It doesn’t take long for him to expel everything in him, and he emerges a moment later still wiping his mouth on his sleeve.  

Rocket and Drax are at the table seeing to coffee and breakfast.  Quill gives them a quick glance and decides he’d rather go back to bed.   He starts to slip away, but his stomach gives an audible groan, and the other pause their discussion to look up at him.

“You should have some.”  Drax nods toward the cereal box.  “There is exactly one serving left.”

“One serving of crumbs,” Rocket chuckles, giving Drax a slap on the arm.

“No, that was, uh,” Quill says, swallowing excess saliva.  “Not a hungry sound.”

“But your species eats morning meals,” Drax presses.

“Ugh, not today.  I think I might’ve picked up a bug or something.”  Quill wraps his arm around his stomach.  He knows he’s empty, so he can’t fathom why he’s still so nauseous.

“I see no insects.”  Drax stares at him blankly.

“Yeah, well–” Quill starts, but bile explodes into the back of his throat.  The sink is closer, so he heaves over it, trying to block out Rocket’s noises of disgust and Drax’s continued questions.

“He ingested an insect and it’s making him vomit?”

“No, you idiot.  He’s just sick,” Rocket says.  Then, “Hey, Quill, we’re eating here, you know?”

Quill flips him the bird over his shoulder.  He knows he’s in for a long day.


	88. Nat's down and crabby with a cold while she and Clint are on a mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Creedless Assassins (Nat and Clint pre-Avengers)

It’s the kind of mission where they wait till after dark, then nail businessmen with poison darts through the open windows of cocktail lounges from the building across the street.  It’s summer in the south of France, so everyone’s out and about at night.  It makes it easy to grab Nat’s hand and stumble into the street, pretending to join the line for a club while surreptitiously watching the real action play out.  

It’s the kind of mission Clint likes, the kind he’s good at, but the lead-up borders on painful.  At least SHIELD put them up in a nice hotel this time, but whiling away the hours till showtime isn’t any more fun when the room has fluffy towels.  They’re still stuck, sitting on their beds.  And Clint suspects Nat’s coming down with something, so her attitude makes it like being stuck with the devil herself.

“Will you stop?”  Nat snaps, closing her book and crossing her arms over her chest.  

Clint pauses in flipping through the channels on the flat-screen TV.  “What?” he asks, aware that he doesn’t have much patience himself.  “Everything’s in fucking French.  I gotta find, like, BBC or something.”

“Well, at least mute it.  It’s giving me a headache.”  

“Nat, that’s…”  Clint shakes his head.  “That’s exactly the opposite of what I want to do.  How the hell am I supposed to know what language it’s in if it’s on mute?”

“Ok, fine.  Be selfish.”  Nat tosses her book to the bedside table and flops down on her side with her back to Clint.  She sniffles loudly, and Clint cringes.  If the sound was coming from one of his kids, he’d be digging the baby cold medicine out of the cabinet.  But even if he suggests she take something, Nat’s clearly not in a compliant mood.

“Right, I’m selfish,” Clint mutters sarcastically.  He turns off the TV and gets to his feet.  There’s a box of plush-feeling tissues on the bathroom counter, and he grabs it before turning to the dresser.  He opens and shuts every drawer before he finally finds the spare bedding.  

Nat looses sigh, chastising him for making so much noise.  

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint says under his breath.  The measured rise and fall of Nat’s shoulder doesn’t quite mask the shivering.  

“Here.”  He drapes the blanket over her, tucking it neatly around her feet, then deposits the tissues on the bedside table.  “Just blow your nose,” Clint tells her.  “Ok?”

“Hmph.”  Nat doesn’t look at him as she reaches for the box.

“I’ll wake you up an hour or so before we have to go.”  

“Who said I was going to sleep?” Nat asks thickly.  She throws the Kleenex on the floor.

“I’ll keep quiet for you.”  Clint glances at the dark screen of the TV, then makes to pick up Nat’s book.  “This any good?”

Nat mumbles something into the pillow.

“Huh?”  Clint tries to glean the subject matter from the abstract design on the paperback’s cover.

“I said, it’s in Russian.”  Nat shifts, and Clint sees the ghost of a smile through the curtain of her hair.


	89. Loki's injured in battle and it makes him ill

Thor is two steps ahead of Loki, dodging projectiles left and right as he raises his hammer and rushes toward battle.  “If I hit them from the front,” he yells over his shoulder, “You could try to infiltrate from behind!”

It’s not a bad idea.  Loki doesn’t think much of the delivery, though.  “We could both attack from the front,” he replies defensively, hitting the butt of his staff against the rocky ground and sending sparks flying.  

“Only room for one of us here, brother,” Thor chuckles.  He draws his fist back to strike.  Loki rushes forward, instinct driving him, perhaps illogically, to land the first blow, to render Thor’s action useless.  

His staff makes contact with the angry creature’s armor, but in his haste, he loses track of the danger surrounding him.  An arrow from deeper within the clash flies through the air and lodges above Loki’s collarbone, a hair’s breadth from the top of his chestplate.

All the air leaves Loki’s lungs.  He grits his teeth and puts all his strength into his staff, intent on finishing the task.  It won’t do to crumple to the ground this early in the fight.  And if he falls, Thor will be distracted with the opportunity to administer first aid.  Heroics are tiresome.

The enemy shrivels in a blast of green light.  Loki lowers his staff, gasping.  

“That was…kind of you.  I suppose.”  Thor turns to look at him.  “But I still didn’t appreciate it.”  Then he sees the arrow protruding from Loki’s chest.  

Loki isn’t sure what happens first: his knees buckling, or Thor rushing to his side.  Either seems capable of causing the other.  

“We’ll get you to safety.  You’ll be healed.  You’ll be fine,” Thor babbles.  He pulls Loki’s arm around his shoulders to support him, but the movement breaks the bubble of adrenaline and brings on agony.  

Loki moans.  His vision blurs, and a metallic taste fills his mouth.  He starts to fall, and he can’t tell if it’s toward his brother or away from him.  The ground seems to be shifting under his feet, pulling him away from the battle.  Pain mixes with vertigo, and Loki’s body jerks forward as he heaves.  It’s all sour bile that runs off his lips and down his chin, matching his streaming eyes and nose.  

“I know it’s painful, I know.” Thor continues to whisper sympathies.  The sound is grating, it increases the ache growing in Loki’s head.  But at least it gives him something else to focus on.  And for that, he has an ember of gratitude.


	90. Tony accidentally walks in on Steve and Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heroverse

“Ok.  You have bluetooth headphones.  I showed you how to use them.”  Tony hammers on the door to Steve’s room and shouts over the blast of a Johnny Mathis ballad.  “Not everyone wants to listen to your tunes, Cap!”

There’s no reply.  

Tony bangs on the door a few more times.  Still nothing.  

It’s unlike Steve to pull a move like that.  It’s more along the lines of what Tony expects from Nat.  Steve’s probably doing push-ups or something and doesn’t want to pause in counting his reps.

“Fine.”  Tony reaches for the doorknob.  “I’m coming in.  Don’t punch me or anything,” he calls.  “I have probable cause.  You’re disturbing the peace.”

Tony flings the door open.  He’s ready to shout again, but stops short.  He blinks.  Then has to swallow a laugh.

Steve is balanced on his hands and knees.  Well, one hand.  The other is entwined in a curtain of dark hair.  He and Bucky are poised near the head of the bed, and from the looks of it, not far from hopping under the covers.  

The two men separate.  Bucky’s posture changes to something more defensive.  “What?”  Steve asks breathlessly.  His lips are red and wet, and his hand still cups Bucky’s jaw.  

“You know what, nevermind.”  Tony backs up slowly, pulling the door.  “Continue.  I was gonna say turn down the volume, but just leave it.”  He looks from Steve to the stereo to the headboard and its position against the wall.  Tony tries to remember who’s room is on the other side.  Bruce’s, he thinks.  

“God, really?”  Steve gives an exasperated laugh.  

“Yup.  Have fun.”  Tony shuts the door and starts toward the elevator.  “FRIDAY, call Banner down to the lab.”

“What should I tell him, sir?” The AI asks.

“I have a, uh, project.”

“Of what nature, sir?”

“Don’t know yet,” Tony says, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he pummels the button.  “I’ll figure it out when we get there.”


	91. Loki is drunk and lonely

The fact that he’s been in this position before does nothing to make the current situation any more pleasant.  Loki sits on the foot of his bed and spits into the basin in his lap.  The ale had tasted fine going down, but it’s bitter and sour coming back up. 

His long, pale hands tremble as he wipes bile and sweat from his upper lip.  The guise of the Allfather had dropped the moment he began to retch, his body rearranging priorities without his permission.  Loki feels terrible for it. 

He’s not guilty per se, nor does he feel sorry for himself.  He knows he deserves what he’s got, and no one’s to blame but himself.  He’s tired of it, though.  If he didn’t know better, he’d almost think he wishes for things to go back as they were. Being king is lonely. 

Loki’s stomach clenches, and he vomits again.  He runs his tongue over his teeth and spits, desperate to dislodge the pitiful strings of mucous and saliva dangling over the basin.  His entire body is shaking, and even his brain seems to be rattling with fine vibrations. 

That must be why his thoughts are jumbled.  He likes where he is.  He doesn’t miss Thor.  The melancholy clotting up his throat is a cruel illusion.  Just an affect of the ale. 


	92. Peter Parker is sick while visiting the Barton Farm

“Peter?”  Laura taps on the guest room door.  It’s well after 10am.  She’d expected him to come come for breakfast an hour ago, but then again, her oldest is still in fourth grade.  She doesn’t know teenagers.  “Cooper really wants to show you his Spider-Man lego set.  You don’t have to give him more than a minute, but…”  

What’s she doing?  Teenagers don’t like obligations.  Or guilt trips.  “You planning on getting up, Pete?  You want some food?  Some pancakes?”  Fifteen-year-old boys like pancakes, right?  

“I’m up.  I’m ok.”  The voice that carries back through the door sounds far away, and oddly echoey, like it’s coming from the other end of a tunnel.  Laura didn’t ask if he was ok, and she’s learned from Clint that when people volunteer that information without prompting, it usually indicates the opposite.

“Alright…”  Laura says slowly.  She grips the doorknob, but hesitates.  She’s not going to disturb the kid’s privacy, not when she isn’t even sure something’s wrong.  But then there’s a retch and a splash and a choked curse, and it all makes sense.

“Oh no,” Laura mutters.  “I’m coming in, ok?”  Thankfully the door’s not locked.  Peter sits on the floor beside the unmade bed, the small trash can in his lap and his forehead resting on the rim.  

“Don’t,” Peter warns, looking up with red, glassy eyes.  “I don’t want you to catch it–” he cuts off with a heave.  

Laura pays him no mind.  She squats at his shoulder and pats him on the back until the fit of retching tapers off.  “I’m a mom,” she says.  “I’m immune.”

“But–”  

“I’m serious.  Lila had–” she gestures at the bin– “whatever this is last week.  I wouldn’t be surprised if Clint took the germs to work and passed them on to you.”

“Hm.”  Peter swallows, then belches up a thin stream of bile.  “God,” he rasps, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.  “There’s nothing left…”

“Yeah, that’s gonna be a problem in a little while.”  Laura touches the backs of her knuckles to his cheek.  She detects a low-grade fever.  “Let’s start with a little water, ok?  Then if that stays down, we can try tylenol.”

“You don’t have to,” Peter says.  “I mean, I should probably just go home.”

“Our home is your home,” Laura tells him, getting to her feet.  “And you’re family now, whether you like it or not.”  She offers him a smile.

Peter returns it for a split second before he coughs and gags again.


	93. Tony has anemia and Bruce can't resist a pun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Science Bros

“You do know I’m not that kind of doctor, right?”  Bruce says as he tears open the envelope.  “I mean, I’m not gonna have any insight beyond just reading what’s on the page.”

“Yeah, I know,” Tony replies, anxiously drumming his fingers on the table.  “Don’t break the spell.  If you say it, it’s still doctor’s advice, right?”

“If you say so.”  Bruce shakes his head.  He unfolds the paper and skims it, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing before he delivers the news.

“I do say so,” Tony says.  “So… what’s it say, doc?  Am I dying?  Is that why I’m tired all the time?”

“Try grouchy all the time,” Bruce chuckles.

“Hey,”  Tony slaps his palm down, rattling their coffee mugs.  “Don’t make me ask the other guy.”

“Keep that up, and you’ll have to.”

“Fine.”  Tony rolls his eyes.  “Hit me with it.  Figuratively.”

“Ok.  It says you’re anemic,” Bruce says.  He lays the paper down where Tony can see it.  “That spot on the graph is normal.  And that one down there, that’s where you are.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tony mutters.  “I’m Iron Man.  Iron.  It’s in my name.  How the fuck am I deficient?”

“Not enough cheeseburgers?” Bruce tries.

“I’m serious.  I mean, the suits are alloy, but still, I’m around metal all the time.  Something’s gotta be said for breathing in the particles or something,” Tony babbles.

“God, breathing in the–”  Bruce breaks off, shaking his head.  “You should be glad it’s just a blood test, not a lung biopsy.  It’s not that hard to fix, Tony.  Eat real food.  Sleep when you’re tired.  Maybe buy some cast-iron skillets.  You’ll be fine.”

“I thought you said you’re not that kind of doctor,” Tony says, snatching the paper and wadding it up between his hands.  

“It doesn’t take a doctor to figure it out,” Bruce says.  “Just…I don’t know, a smart person.”

“You’re saying I’m dumb now?  I should’ve asked someone else.  I bet Thor would’ve flown Jane in for me.”

“No.”  Bruce grins.  “But one symptom of anemia is brain fog.”  Then he snatches up his coffee and leaves the room before Tony can catch on.


	94. Loki overextends himself using magic and becomes ill as a result

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor

Loki lifts his staff, throwing his shoulder into the movement.  A wicked grin splits his face as the enemy advancing toward him falls before he can pull his sword from its scabbard.  

“Good one, brother,” Thor thunders, clubbing another over the head with his hammer.  

“That was but a taste,” Loki cackles.  He draws a horizontal line through the air, and a dozen of their adversaries topple forward.  Their own troops trample their bodies in the mad rush toward the clash.  “They’re all stupid.  They’re no match for us.”

“For once, I must say I agree with you.”  Thor whips his hammer around his head and lets it spin off, denting several breastplates before it returns to his hand.  

Loki uses the butt of the staff to stab at the neck of one of the combattants he missed in the earlier attacks.  

“Leave him to me.”  Thor clocks the soldier and kicks his body out of the way.  “Can you freeze them as they approach?  It would create a barrier.”

Loki sees the appeal, but he’s less sure of the practicality.  Weariness is already setting in, and the amount of energy required to maintain a spell of that caliber against enemies of this size and number…  But he’s not one to back down from a challenge, especially not one risen by his brother.  “Don’t get in my way,” Loki says, raising his staff over his head.  

The first few soldiers caught in the wave of ice stop in their tracks.  Thor throws his hammer and crushes them like ceramic statues, sending shards of ice showering over the advancing army.  He whoops in triumph.  Loki sets his jaw, desperate to maintain his concentration.  

Another row of troops freezes and falls.  Then another.  By the fourth wave, though, they don’t stop.  They’re only slowed.  

“A bit more, brother,” Thor shouts.

“Trying,” Loki grunts.  The hand on his staff is slick with cold sweat.  An ache grows behind his forehead, his muscles cramp, and his stomach roils.  Finally he can’t stand it anymore, and he drops his arms.  Loki immediately staggers.  He throws himself against his staff for support.

Thor is mid-hammer throw when he seems to realize something is wrong.  He waits until the weapon is safely back in his hand before spinning toward Loki.  “Why did you stop?” he asks, but no sooner do the words leave his tongue when his eyes alight with understanding.  “Oh.”

Loki would reply, but his chest is heaving, and he can no longer tell the panicked stuttering of his heart from the illness rising in his throat.  He heaves, spraying the ground with bile, and collapses into Thor’s side when his brother reaches for him.  

“Cover me!” Thor shouts to the rest of the Asgardian warriors.  “I’ll get you to safety.”  The words ring in Loki’s sensitive head, but below the pain, he’s glad for them.  He knows thor will keep his word.


	95. Tony doesn't know when to quit (Good thing Bruce does.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Science Bros

“Hey.”  Bruce stands at Tony’s elbow, gazing down at the half-finished projects strewn over the lab bench.  He reaches for the screwdriver in Tony’s hand.  “Give me that.”

“Get your own,” Tony mumbles.  He swats at Bruce without looking up, then pushes the sweaty curls off his forehead.  He lets out a tremulous breath and lifts the screwdriver a few millimeters before making another attempt to loosen the tiny bolts holding his mask to his helmet.  He curses under his breath when he misses his target.

“Will you stop watching me?”  Tony slaps the tool down on the tabletop and crosses his arms over his chest.  “I can’t work with you looking over my shoulder.”  He’s clearly trying for an irritated expression, but the full-body tremors keep him from pulling it off.  Bruce watches his shoulders hitch up and down.

“I’m not trying to start anything.”  Bruce lifts his hands in a placating gesture.  “I just, you know.  Maybe it’s time to take a breather.”

“I don’t know what planet you just stepped off of,” Tony says, “But on Earth, this is routine maintenance.  Not a big effort.”  

“You sure?”  Bruce presses.  Tony’s chest rises and falls a little quicker than what’s baseline average for a man who’s sitting down.  A vein throbs in his forehead, and he takes a loud, wet-sounding swallow.  “You feeling ok?”

“That was reflux.  Coffee.  Acid.  You know.”  Tony prattles on, pressing his fist to his lips.  “Or do you?  Caffeine’s bad for your…condition, right?”  This time, he’s definitely suppressing a sick belch.

“Yeah, I try to take care of myself,” Bruce says.  He bends down and grabs the trash can from under the lab bench.  He sets it in Tony’s lap and claps him between the shoulder blades.  “I try to take care of you, too.”

“Jesus, why’d you–now I’m–” Tony gags.  He grips the edges of the bin with white knuckles as he heaves up a stream of brownish liquid.

“Listening wouldn’t hurt you, either,” Bruce chuckles.  But he feels bad for his friend.  He pats Tony on the back again, then starts putting away the tools.  

“Hey, I’m still working,” Tony protests as he spits into the trash can.

Bruce shakes his head.  “No, you’re not.  And you’re not in charge anymore.  Not till you’re feeling better.”


	96. Bruce makes Nat tea, no strings attached

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon ships, Bruce/Nat

“What the hell?”  Nat almost walks into Bruce on her way out of the bathroom.  She’d been expecting to tiptoe back down the hall to her room–ok, maybe his room–without meeting another soul.  It’s two in the morning, and for once all the inhabitants of the tower seem to be having a peaceful night. All but her.  And now him.

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to scare you.”  Bruce steadies Nat with a hand on each of her shoulders.

“I wasn’t scared,” Nat says defensively.  “I just…I thought I was alone. You’re lucky I’m not feeling so hot, or you’d be flat on your back right about now.”

“Not feeling so hot, huh?”  Bruce doesn’t miss a beat.

“I’m fine.  It’s nothing.”  Nat tries to pull away.  She’ll go back to her room after all.

“Heaving your guts up in the middle of the night?  That’s not exactly what I’d call nothing.”

“I wasn’t–” Nat starts, but Bruce cuts her off.

“You don’t have to lie. I’m not deaf, Nat.”

Nat bites her lip.  She swallows painfully.  “I knew I should’ve stuck with Barton.”

Bruce stares at her for a second.  Then he laughs. “Must not be feeling too terrible.  Still got that sense of humor.”

“You know making yourself vomit is a recognized tactic to escape a kidnapping?”  Nat’s face doesn’t move.

“No.  I didn’t know that,” Bruce says.  He moves parallel to Nat, pulling her into a one-armed hug.  He starts walking her toward the elevator. “How about you enlighten me?  And maybe I can show you some things I learned in India. There are more herbs to calm your stomach than just ginger and mint.”

“Are you gonna make me?” Nat asks.

“I’m gonna make you a cup of tea.  With your consent,” Bruce tells her.  “Literally. No subtext.” Then he waits as Nat mulls it over.

Finally she nods.  “Ok. Fine. No subtext.”

Bruce grins.  “None at all.”


	97. Peter has a mission with Captain America

He’s on a mission with Captain America.  Captain America.  The guy in the motivational videos they play at school.  No one beats Iron Man, but Steve Rogers is solidly in second place on Peter’s list of idols.   **  
**

He’s on a mission alone with Captain America.  It’s a big deal.

“Hey.  You ok?” Steve calls across the street.  

“Huh?”  Peter snaps to attention and webs a chunk of rubble out of midair before it can clock him in the face.  “Oh.  Yeah.  I’m good.”  There’s no time to explain, and Peter’s not sure why his stomach is turning somersaults.  Maybe too much breakfast.  Or not enough.  Or just the fact that he’s fighting a space robot with Steve fucking Rogers.

“If I keep it occupied down here, can you drop down from above?” Steve yells.  “I think it has a power switch.”  He jerks his chin upward.  Peter follows his gaze, up to the faintly pulsating red light on what he assumes is the top of the thing’s head.

“Yeah,” Peter says, jogging to gain momentum before swinging up to a street lamp.  “Yeah.  I can do that.”  

His heart thrums up toward his throat.  “Ok, ok,” Peter murmurs to himself.  “Don’t mess this up.”  He takes a running leap and sails through the air, his eyes fixed on his target.  Peter doesn’t see the claw-like metal arm coming toward him.  All he knows is that suddenly he’s falling.  Then he blacks out.  

He comes to when someone yanks his mask off and roughly slaps his cheek.  “Huh?” Peter groans, pawing at the air in front of his face.

“Don’t move.  You might have a concussion.”  Peter recognizes the voice.  It’s not someone he usually hangs around with.  

The realization hits at the same moment as the nausea, and Peter scrambles to roll away from Steve.  He’s weak and shaky, though, and strong hands hold him in place.

“It’s ok,” Steve says quietly as Peter heaves up a slurry of bile and undigested breakfast.  It pools on his chest and Steve’s knees.

“I’m so sorry,” Peter chokes, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand.  “I didn’t mean–”

“Don’t worry about it.  I have backup coming.”

Peter remembers the mission, and his cheeks burn with further embarrassment.  “I let you down,” he mutters, the threat of tears growing behind his aching forehead.  “I’m so sorry.”

“No, you didn’t,” Steve tells him, patting Peter on the back as he starts to vomit again.  “You did really well.  Everyone takes a hit sometimes.  Did you ever hear the story of how we had to medevac Barton from the mission in Sokovia?”

“Now that’s a good story,” Natasha’s voice crackles over the radio attached to the front of Steve’s uniform.  “You planning on telling it?  It’s great for parties.”

“Maybe later,” Steve says with a smile.  “You close?”

“Yeah,” Nat’s voice says.  “Look up.”

A shadow passes overhead.  Peter squints at the underbelly of the quinjet.

“Banner’s on board to stabilize him,” Nat continues.  “What do you say we wipe this thing out, then get out of here?”

“Sounds great,” Steve says.  He looks at Peter.  “We’ll be quick.  I promise, I’ll tell you all about it on the way back.”

“It’ll be worth it,” Nat adds.  “He does good sound effects.”

Peter blinks and tries to string a few words together.  If what he’s hearing is real…it sounds fantastic.  “Ok,” he chokes.  “Yeah.”


	98. Steve's an ass about Tony's cold

“I’m going to focus on freeing the hostages,” Steve says, lifting his mask so he can better address the team.  “Stark and Romanov, you’re on offense.  Barton, you’ll keep the path to safety clear.  Got it?”

Nat gives a curt nod, and Clint replies by pulling an arrow from his quiver.  Steve turns to Tony expectantly, but all he gets is a wet sniveling sound from inside the helmet.

“I need an affirmative, Stark,” Steve says.

“God, how many times to I have to tell you, it’s not my day.”  Tony lifts his mask, showing off his red nose and watering eyes.  “I’m trying my best, since apparently SHIELD doesn’t allow sick days.”

“Well, I’m sorry you’re inconvenienced.”  Steve pulls his mask back down and hefts his shield.  “There are only 15 American citizens stranded on an aircraft carrier with a HYDRA kill squad.  Between a little winter cold and innocent lives, I think you know where I stand.”

“Not everyone’s as high and mighty as you are, oh captain my captain,” Tony coughs.  

“Stark–”  Steve puffs himself up, but Natasha cuts him off.

“Ladies, please.  Stark, you’re complaining to the wrong crowd.  Cap, he really is running a fever.  And, uh, impaired judgement may be a symptom.”  She presses a button on her wristband, and her balled fist crackles with electricity.  “I can handle offense on my own.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Tony starts.  

“Ok.  We can’t waste anymore time,” Steve says.  “Romanov has offense.  Stark…hold the door?”

“I’m good with that,” Clint affirms.

“Me too,” Nat says.

“God,” Tony sighs.  “Fine.”


	99. Peter Quill can't stomach his migraine

Rocket is piloting.  Usually that in itself is enough to spark an argument between Quill and the raccoon, but today, Quill’s body takes issue with the route, leaving him no time to worry over it with his brain and his words.  

“It is humorous,” Drax says from somewhere in the back of the ship, “That when we approach a star, it appears to be daylight.  And when we move away from it, night falls again.”

“It ain’t humorous, it’s fact,” Rocket says, pulling the ship sideways to dodge a few asteroids hanging in the star’s gravitational pull.  He guns the accelerator, bouncing them further out into a corner of space that’s thankfully a little dimmer.  

Quill’s thankful, but it’s still not enough to diminish the throbbing ache behind his forehead.  He crosses his arms over the steering column and lowers his head.  

“Hey.”  An empty can bounces off Quill’s shoulder.  “If you’re gonna sleep, get in the back.  If you sit there, you gotta copilot, which means you gotta look where we’re going.”

“Hmph,” Quill grunts.  He’d love to argue the point, but he has a feeling that if he opens his mouth, words aren’t going to be the only thing that comes out.  

“I mean it.”  Rocket throws another empty can.  This one hits his head.  

The curse that tears from his lips is as involuntary as the gag, and before he quite realizes what’s happening, there’s sick all down Quill’s front, as well as splattered on the steering column.  And the floor.

“Fuck,” Quill mutters, burying his face in his elbow.  “That’s your fault.”

“What?” Rocket loudly protests.  “How was I supposed to know that was gonna happen?  You’re weak, you know that?”

“Geez,” Quill hisses, struggling to stand up without slipping or otherwise falling over.  “It’s a goddamn migraine.  It’s…temporary.”

“Well, you’re temporarily weak,” Rocket snipes.

“Fine,” Quill sighs, dodging Drax, who’s coming with a mop.  “I guess I am.”


	100. Clint overdoes it a little

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon ships, Clint/Laura

“Ok, there you go.”  Laura has to slip her arm from around Clint’s waist as she unlocks the door, but she keeps one finger hooked in his belt loop.  He’s too heavy for it to actually do much good if he falls, but she hopes the tug helps keep him on his feet.

She swings the door open and pulls Clint in after her.  “Alright. Let’s get you lying down.”

“Sorry,” Clint slurs, tripping over the welcome mat, then his own feet.  “I’m sorry, babe.”

“Save it, ok?”  Laura sighs.

“Sorry I’m such a…a fucking lightweight.”  Clint’s laugh becomes a hiccup.

“It’s just what happens when you hit a new phase of life.”  Clint takes a step toward the kitchen, but Laura redirects him down the hall toward their bedroom.  “You’re drinking apple juice more often than beer these days. Now isn’t the time to discuss it. But honestly, Clint?  I’d be more concerned if you weren’t wasted. You can’t out drink Thor.” She laughs.

“You’re not…you’re not mad?”  Clint stumbles again. This time Laura doesn’t blame him.  There are Legos on the carpet.

“Steady,” Laura says, pressing her palm to his chest.  “And no. This is riduculous, but I’m not mad at you.”

“Ok.  Good,”  Clint breathes.  He hiccups again, and a sick noise comes from his throat.  “Not good. Honey–?”

He vomits before either of them can react.  The hallway is dark, and sick runs down Clint’s front and catches Laura’s sleeve before it puddles on the floor.  The best Laura can do is hold him still so he doesn’t slip in it.

Clint heaves again, then pauses, gasping.  

“Think you can hold off till the bathroom for round two?”  Laura pats him on the back.

“‘M sorry,” Clint chokes.  

“Answer the question, Clint.”

He opens his mouth with a wet sound, hiccups, then whispers, “Maybe.”

“Ok.  Come on.”  Laura gauges the distance to the bedroom, around the corner, and into the ensuite.  It’ll be tight, but she can make him hurry. She grabs a handful of Clint’s shirt and urges him forward again.

“You sure you’re not mad?”  Clint drops his head sideways onto Laura’s shoulder.

“Let’s not talk right now,” Laura says.  “But same answer as last time.”


	101. Thor's sick after Darcy tazes him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor, missing moments
> 
> This takes place during the Thor movie, between when Darcy tazes him and when he wakes up in the hospital.

“What…?  What’re you…?”  Thor’s eyelids flutter.  As he peels them open, a monstrous throb starts up behind his forehead. 

“Stay where you are.  I’m armed and dangerous,” a voice says.

Thor blinks again.  The side of his face is plastered to a window.  He’s in some kind of vehicle.  Which is moving.  His stomach flips sickeningly. 

“What?” he rasps again.

“Darcy, cool it,” Somebody says from the front

“What, I am,” the young woman beside him insists.  “Don’t move, or I’ll taze you again.”

The word is unfamiliar to Thor, but if whatever she did caused this drowsy pain, he’s more than happy to sit still.  “Alright,” he murmurs, shaking his head a little to see if the fog inside it will clear.  “I won’t.”  The movement has the opposite effect, and within seconds he’s swallowing down bile. 

Thor’s baffled.  He’s never had a weak stomach.  But then again, he’s never been shot— _tazed_ —with a Midgardian weapon before.

“Ok.  Good.”  The young woman, Darcy, Thor presumes, sticks out her lower lip in an authoritative pout. 

“Will you stop threatening him?” the other voice asks.  It’s another woman, this one slightly more frantic.  “I’m taking you to the hospital, but are you ok?” 

Brown eyes flash in the small mirror set near the roof of the vehicle.  She looks as worried as she sounds.  Thor wants to reassure her he’s alright, but he’s not so sure himself.  Nausea flares as soon as he opens his mouth, and it’s all he can do to lean forward and duck his head so they don’t all have to watch him vomit. 

“I’m…I’m not moving,” Thor chokes, though his change in position shows otherwise.  “I don’t mean to…”

“Yeah, I kinda got that,” Darcy says with a note of disgust.

“We’re almost there,” the other woman reassures.  “Just make sure he doesn’t aspirate, please.”

“Why’s that my job?”

“’Cause you’re back there!  I’m driving!”

Thor doesn’t mean to groan, but the raised voices send arrows through his sore head.  He cups his hands clumsily over his ears.  “Still…not moving…”  He gulps, but can’t keep down another heave.

“Ok, fine.”  Darcy sighs and awkwardly pats his shoulder.  “I take it back.  I’m not gonna shoot you.  Please don’t die before we get to the hospital.”

Thor spits to clear some of the bitter taste.  “Don’t worry.  I’m not planning on it.”


	102. T'Challa and Shuri both have the bug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pantherverse

Shuri drags herself up on her knees, pausing to get her breath before she braves standing up.  The last ten minutes are a blur of bitterness and pain, but she takes small comfort in the fact that at least she made it to the bathroom.  She’d feel like the hypocrite of the century if she’d made a mess in the lab.  She’s a stickler for proper procedure: closed-toed shoes at all times, and certainly no fluids near her machinery.  The occasional can of coke doesn’t count.

Shuri wishes she had something to drink now to be rid of the taste of bile clinging to her tongue, but the best she can do is use the tank of the toilet to haul herself to her feet and shuffle toward the sink.  She’s not above sucking water straight from the faucet, especially when she knows everything in here is sterile.

There’s an electronic click from somewhere in the lab behind her, and T’Challa’s voice rings out.  “Shuri?”

The bathroom tile creates an echo, distorting the sound into something much louder and harsher than her brother probably intends.  She imagines his visage rising from her sand table, looking around for her.

Shuri winces and shuts off the water.  “Just…just a moment,” she says weakly.

“Are you alright?”

If she tells the truth, T’Challa will come rushing in, full of concern for her well-being.  And if Shuri lies, he’ll be able to tell, and he’ll still come rushing in.  Best to bite the bullet.  Even metal shavings probably taste better than the rancid sourness still clotting in her throat.

“No,” Shuri sighs.  “I’m sick.  My stomach is…”  She decides to spare him the details.  “It’s probably a virus.”

“Oh.”  T’Challa’s tone is undoubtedly concerned, but there’s more to it.  He sounds disappointed.

“What’s wrong?” Shuri asks, pulling down the towel to wipe clamminess from her face.

“I was going to ask if you had anything to treat nausea.  Or for rehydration, at least.”  T’Challa pauses.  “I think I have it too.”


	103. Clint removes a birds nest from the dryer vent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barton Fam.

“Hey, welcome home,” Laura says as Clint sets down his bag and starts to unlace his boots.  “You caught me at a good time.  The kids are still at school till two, and Nate’s napping.  Peacefully, for once.”

“Uh-huh.”  Clint follows the sound of her voice into the kitchen.  

“You want some orange juice?  Or there’s still coffee left.”  Laura gestures toward the carafe on the counter.

“I’m good.  You know Stark’s jets are always full-service.”

“Yeah, I guess I do know that.”  Laura flits around the counter and wraps her arms around Clint’s waist.  “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” he replies, returning the embrace.  “Now, what do you want?”  

Laura’s just kind enough to avoid the topic of her own needs, becoming conspicuously chatty about everything else under the sun.  She tilts her chin upward and gives Clint a sheepish smile.  “Is it that obvious?”

“Yup.”  But Clint grins back.

“Ok,” Laura sighs.  “The dryer’s taking forever to finish a load, so I think there might be something clogging the vent…”

“And you need a big strong man to climb the ladder and see if there’s something up there?”

“Absolutely,” Laura says.

“Geez, another mission?  Already?” Clint teases, ruffling his wife’s hair.

“Well, I’ve heard you’re  the right guy for the job.  You come very highly recommended…”

“Yeah, ok, I’m on it,” Clint says, pulling away and starting toward the garage.  “I’ll take that coffee when I’m done, yeah?”

“That seems like fair payment.”.

It only takes Clint fifteen minutes to deal with the problem, and as promised, a steaming mug is waiting for him at the table.  

“Mission accomplished?” Laura asks.

“Yeah,” Clint replies shaking his head.  “When you said I came highly recommended, I didn’t quite take you seriously, but…” he breaks off chuckling.

“What?”

“Did you know it was a birds nest?”  Clint tilts his head and tries to read her face.  “Was this whole thing a setup?”

“No,” Laura says with a laugh.  “I mean, the ladder’s too heavy for me to even go look…  But that’s actually perfect.”

“Yeah, I’m still letting it sink in.”  Clint sips his coffee.  “But I’m glad to be home.”

Laura takes the seat beside him and squeezes his shoulder.  “Me too.”


	104. Nat steps in to help when Steve's away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoa Bessie Captain America AU

When Steve left for his out-of-town training, he’d slipped Nat a Starbucks gift card and told her to check in on James while he was gone.  “Maybe take him to a movie or something,” he’d suggested.  “Or at least make sure he takes his meds.”

“Ok,” Nat had nodded, thinking maybe she’d take the opportunity to teach him chess.  Sneak in some additional OT and give him some pointers on how to crush Steve at the game when he comes back.  

She hadn’t been banking on the stomach flu making a house call before she did.  

Nat’s unsettled when James doesn’t answer the door, but she uses the spare key Steve gave her and walks heavily on purpose so she doesn’t sneak up on him.  “James?” she asks, throwing her purse on the kitchen counter.  

No reply.  Nat’s on her way down the hall to see if he’s taking a nap, but a groan and a wet burp come from the direction of the bathroom, and everything clicks in the worst possible way.  “Shit,” she mutters, wishing dysentery wasn’t such a problem in Afghanistan.  She may be level-headed in a crisis, but flashbacks are firmly outside her area of expertise.  She’s more than happy to hand her patients off to mental health services when she’s out of her depth.

“Hey.”  Nat knocks on the wall beside the open door.  “Mind if I turn on the light?”

James retches, which Nat decides to take a an affirmative.  He squints at her for a second when the bathroom alights with a fluorescent glow from the bulbs over the mirror, then heaves up a mouthful of something all over the toilet seat.  

“Ugh.”  James wipes his mouth on his shirt.  “Steve…?”

“He’s still out of town.  He’s at a conference,” Nat reminds him.  She pushes up her sleeves in case things continue to be messy, then squats beside James’s trembling form.  She hovers her fingers over the back of his neck, gauging for fever without actually touching.  He’s definitely warm.

“What’s hurting you?” Nat asks, reaching behind James for the toilet paper.  

He gags again, and bile runs down his chin.  Nat deftly pops the roll out of the holder.  She wipes the toilet seat first, then offers a wad to James.  He’s barely coordinated enough to close his fingers around it, and he stops with it halfway to his face.

“James?”  Nat prompts.  “What hurts?  Your head, your stomach…?”

“I…”  He swallows thickly.  “I don’t know.”

Nat sighs.  Pain is obvious.  Dehydration probable.  Meds iffy.  Not staying down, if he even took them at all.  “I know you’re feeling bad,” she says, tucking a lock of sweaty, spitty hair behind his ear, then goes in for a grounding touch on his shoulder.  “But I need you to do a little better than that.”

“I…”  James shakes his head a millimeter to each side.  The motion is barely perceptible.  It’s nothing compared to the way his jaw is quivering.  “Everything.  Just…everything.”

Nat’s heart breaks for him.  Her logical brain flicks forward a few steps, forming the outline of a plan.  Fluids.  Ibuprofen.  Rest.  And a few texts to Steve to let him know what’s happening and warn him not to freak out.  “Yeah,” she murmurs.  “I know.  It sucks.”

James lets out a shallow breath.  His face is practically the same color as the drab white wall.  Nat would insist on getting him into bed if it didn’t look like he might fall down if he tries to stand up.  He seems to be taking her hand on him alright, so Nat moves her thumb in circles over the tense muscle between his arm and his neck.

“Hm,” James exhales, his chest jerking with a little hiccup.  He blinks hard, and Nat understands perfectly.  I still want to throw up, but I also don’t.

“It’s ok,” Nat soothes.  James doesn’t bolt for the toilet again, so she keeps up the gentle massage, then asks, “Can I hug you?  Would that help?”

James stays still for a second, then nods once.  “Can try,” he croaks.

“Ok,” Nat says, folding him into her arms without hesitation.  “I’m good to try.”


	105. Bruce holds everybody up (but Nat understands)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place at the beginning of Age of Ultron, after the "sun's getting real low" scene between Nat and Bruce.

Bruce knows he’s holding them up.  He would be embarrassed if he had any brain cells to spare, but his head’s still too full of greenish haze and imminent sickness to focus on anything else.  At least he got his pants on before he stumbled up to the quinjet and started heaving. 

Time always passes more quickly when he’s the other guy.  Bruce assumes it has something to do with being physically bigger and moving at the frenetic pace of rage, but it’s just a guess.  A guess based on nothing but childish logic. He’s certainly in no place to confirm the inference given his current state of illness, but when Nat slinks down the jet’s steps and touches his shoulder, Bruce figures it’s because the clock’s run out.  

He’s still shirtless, and her fingers are cold against his clammy skin.  “Not feeling any better?” Nat asks.

Bruce spits.  “Ugh. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.  It’s not your fault.”  Nat leans her shoulder against the jet so Bruce can see her without turning his head.  It’s considerate of her. He would say thanks, but Nat would probably admonish him again for wasting his breath.  Instead, Bruce takes a tentative swallow, hopeful that he can at least hold down his own saliva.

It turns out he can’t, and he retches again.

“Hey, I’m really sorry to have to do this,” Nat says, lines of sincerity appearing between her eyes.  “But we have to go. We don’t have any cover, and Barton needs medical…” She trails off. 

“Yeah,” Bruce chokes.  “I get it.” He drags the back of his hand across his mouth and starts toward the steps.  He stops to take a final breath of chilly air before ducking inside, and he meets Nat’s eyes.  “And don’t be sorry,” he tells her. “It’s not your fault, either.”


	106. Steve has the flu, and Tony's teasing goes too far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Avengers

Tony feels bad as soon as he says it.  He didn’t mean to rub Steve’s face in it, not really.  But thinking things through beforehand isn’t one of his strong suits.  Making fun of people is second nature.  He does it to everybody, just ask Pepper…

But, yeah.  He should’ve said something blander, like “get well soon” after Steve had excused himself from the briefing and not quite made it into the bathroom before his breakfast was all over the floor.  Suggesting the supersoldier “go back to his roots and take a sick day” had gone a little too far.  And pointing out to the whole team that there’s still a kid with a weak stomach somewhere in there under all the brawn… It was just mean.  Even it might be a little bit true.

“You know, we can probably finish this tomorrow,” Fury says, shutting off the projector.  “Mission accomplished.  Just…”  He looks around at the remnants of the team.  “Keep yourselves healthy.”

“Why’d you say something like that, huh?”  Nat hisses as soon as the director leaves the room.  

“What, you’re the courtesy police now?” Tony huffs.  “It’s not like you’re all sweetness all the time.”

“Yeah, but…”  Nat shakes her head.  Tony’s already guilty.  Now Nat’s acting as judge and jury, practically marking him a criminal for it.

“Geez, I’ll go apologize, ok?”  Tony says, getting to his feet.  “Is that what you want?”

“It’s not about me.”  Nat holds up her hands as if to absolve herself.

“God,” Tony grumbles as he heads for the door.  “I didn’t realize this was fucking kindergarten.”

The bots are already working on the puddle of sick in the hallway.  Tony steps around them and stands in the bathroom doorway.  He’s rarely lost for words, but there doesn’t seem to be a right thing to say to a frankly imposing teammate when he’s reduced to a quivering mess of dry heaves on then bath mat.  Especially when Tony’s already insulted him.

“Um,” Tony starts, drumming his fingers on the wall nervously.  “You ok?  Or, you gonna be ok?”

“Yeah,” Steve chokes, stealing a glance at Tony before batting at the toilet paper.  “Of course.”

“Ok.  Good.”  Tony takes a deep breath.  “Listen, what I said earlier, I–”

“You weren’t wrong,” Steve interrupts him, sitting back on his heels.  

“Well, yeah,” Tony says with a shrug.  “But it was…mean.  And, uh, I’m sorry?”  The words are hard to say.  Because he’s out of practice, Tony thinks.  That has to be all there is to it.

But he’s surprised when Steve laughs.  “Don’t kid yourself.  It’s not the first time anybody’s said something like that to me.”

“But after the super-soldier-fication deal, you weren’t supposed to get teased anymore, and, well…”  Tony realizes he’s spouting is father, who was probably spouting Erksine.  It’s not like him to quote other people, especially when his respect for them is iffy.  And Steve’s probably already heard it all besides.

“The serum only added stuff.”  Steve flushes the toilet and slowly rises to his feet, one arm draped protectively over his stomach.  “Immunities, fast healing, height and mass…”  He tips his head dismissively.  “It didn’t take anything away.  So, yeah, I’m still a kid with a weak stomach.  But I still have a thick skin, too.”

“Ok, ok, I get it.”  Tony’s hit his limit for mushiness.  He takes a step backward and almost trips over Dumm-E, who’s busy with a mop.  

“I’d shake your hand if I did’t think this was probably contagious,” Steve says, giving Tony a half-smile.  “So, is my word ok?  That we’re good?”

“Yeah.”  Tony picks his way around the robot and gives a curt nod.  “Definitely good.”


	107. Jess should've know better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonestown (Jessica Jones/Avengers crossover)

Jess should’ve known better than to lie down when she’s this drunk.  She’d have been better off sleeping with her arms folded over the toilet seat, or in her padded desk chair with the trash can in her lap.  But Nat’s warm and tipsy, and that makes her just right for spooning.  It’s too bad that being this drunk also makes her a slave to lust over logic.  They fall side by side into Jess’s bed, kiss a few times, and drift off to sleep.  

The bliss is short-lived, as Jess kows it will be.  She’s sick before she even wakes up, her foggy dream turning to snakes in her stomach as whiskey and acid climb up her throat and spill all over the pillowcase.  She vomits again and opens her eyes, scrambling for the edge of the bed and desperately hoping to make a clean getaway.

But it’s too late.  It’s already everywhere.  Dripping loudly onto the floor.  Turning cold on her hands.  Staying warm inside her bra.  

“Fuck,” Jess mutters, throwing back the quilt more violently than she means to.  But she’s still nauseous, and Nat will forgive her.  Hopefully.

“What’s wrong?”  Nat’s sleepy mumble floats up, then the sound of a hand slapping against something wet.  “Oh, shit.”  

Jess is already tripping into the bathroom as the mattress groans and Nat’s feet pad across the hardwood, gracefully dodging the landmines of vomit and discarded clothes.  She gently gathers Jess’s hair back at the nape of her neck and pats between her shoulder blades as she heaves over the toilet.  

It must be a cruel joke of fate, because Jess is empty now, her raw throat refusing to give up even strings of mucous and bile.  Her mouth feels like the scorched terrain of a desert, dry and burning, her lips tingling with what’s left of the drunkenness.  

“Sorry,” Jess mutters, wiping her mouth on the inside of her elbow, the cleanest bit of her she can find.  “I’m really…”  She swallows hard.  “Just… you should… go back to your room.”

“Hey.”  Nat rubs her shoulder.  

“God, I knew this would happen.  Just go back to bed–”

“Hey, stop.”  Nat’s voice is quiet, but firm.  “Stop, ok?”  She grabs a washcloth from the neat stack on the back of the toilet and sponges off Jess’s chin.  “Let’s get you into something clean, then you can lie down in my bed.  I’ll get the sheets in the laundry, then I’ll be right there.”

“I don’t want you to bother with it,” Jess slurs, wondering how it’s possible to still be this nauseated when she’s completely empty.  

“I know you don’t,” Nat says, unruffled.  “But I get to choose, ok?”

Jess sighs.  “You make shitty choices.”

Nat presses a kiss to her forehead, then pulls back enough to look into Jess’s slightly unfocused eyes.  “No, I don’t.  And I don’t think you do, either.”


	108. Peter Quill really wants Gamora's comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guardians of the Galaxy

Quill leaves the Milano’s cramped bathroom with his arms still wrapped around his stomach.  Gamora sits on the bench set into the ship’s wall, and he makes a beeline for her.  He gingerly lowers himself onto the hard surface, then scoots over until they’re shoulder-to-shoulder.  

“I’m sitting here,” Gamora says, not looking up from the maps she’s perusing.  “There’s plenty of other seating.”

“I know,” Quill says.  His voice is raspy from illness.  He coughs weakly and clears his throat.

“Then I’ll find another spot.”  Gamora starts to fold up the map.

“No, stay.”  Quill puts his hand over hers, then drops his fevered forehead onto her shoulder.  

Gamora makes a confused sound.  She sets the map on the bench beside her.  “What–?”

Quill takes the opportunity to drag his feet up and curl onto his side, his head in Gamora’s lap.

“Oh,” she says, still tense.

“Don’t move,” Quill mutters.

“But… your head,” Gamora says slowly, “Which has just vomited–”

“It was my stomach,” Quill corrects her in a whisper.  “Technically.”

“That’s irrelevant.  If it happens again…”

“I promise I won’t puke on you,” Quill says resolutely.  “Trust me.”  He reaches for her hand and deposits it near his hairline.  

“What’re you doing?” Gamora asks.

“Can you just…?”  Quill trails off.  “It feels good.”

“I thought you said not to move,” Gamora says.  Quill practically hears her narrow her eyes.  “And to trust you.”

“Yeah,  _trust,_ ” Quill mumbles.  “Not  _listen to_.”


	109. James finds Nat ill and upset at work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoa Bessie Captain America AU

When James walks into his occupational therapy appointment, he’s surprised to see Nat at her desk in the corner of the room.  She’s usually bouncing around, pulling a board game or an empty shampoo bottle or some other object from the endless supply of bits and pieces on the floor-to-ceiling shelves.

“Um.  Hi?”  James isn’t used to announcing himself.  Nat normally hears him coming.  He’s gotten the impression she’s not easy to sneak up on.

“Oh.”  Nat’s head is down, her auburn curls falling in curtains on either side of her face.  She sniffs and withdraws her hand into the sleeve of her shirt, then wipes at her eyes with it.  “Sorry.  I’m coming.”

She doesn’t sound good.  Whether she’s crying or just congested, James can’t tell.  But something’s wrong.  He knows that much.

“Are…are you ok?”  It’s so obvious she’s not James wants to kick himself.  He’s out of practice with being the comforter, though.  He tries to think of the kind words Steve uses to calm him down when he’s upset, but his brain comes up unhelpfully blank.

“Yeah, I just…I’m sorry.”  Nat starts to swivel her desk chair toward him.  She dabs at her eyes again, then forces a smile.  

James doesn’t return it.  He feels his brows furrow together in worry.  Nat’s face is pale.  Too pale.  And her eyes are all red.  

“I…no.”  James shakes his head.  “Do you want me to go?  Or, like, go get somebody.”

“No, I’m–”  Nat swallows.  Maybe sobs.  But then her pallid face goes a shade of greenish grey, made all the worse by its contrast to her coppery hair.  Her hand goes over her mouth, and she dives for the small trash can under the desk.  

“Oh, um…”  James freezes, wanting to rush over to pat her on the back, but also afraid to move.  What if he scares her?  Or hurts her?  As the patient in their relationship, he’s used to her hands on him, correcting his grip, staying his tremors.  But he’s never been the one to reach out first.  

Nat doesn’t seem to have anything to bring up, but she still retches and gags, bent over her knees for what seems like an eternit, but in reality can’t be more than thirty seconds.  “God,” she gasps, her chest still flat against her thighs.  “I’m sorry.”

“No.”  James shakes his head again.  He takes a breath and forces himself to stop overthinking the situation.  “Just…no.”  He crosses the room in three long strides, then clenches and unclenches his fist a couple times before sweeping her curls back from her clammy forehead.  He’s shaking a little, or maybe she is.  James doesn’t know what’s wrong, or how to fix it, but at least she’s not getting spit in her hair.  He can make sure of that.


	110. Bucky's sick while staying with the Bartons while Steve's away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Powers/no powers

It’s a coincidence that Steve and Clint are both scheduled to be out of town when the schools close for winter break, but Laura treats it like it’s all part of the plan.  

“Come stay with us,” she tells Bucky over the phone the night before he says goodbye to Steve at the airport.  “There’s already snow on the ground.  I bet Clint’s snowshoes would fit you.”

“I don’t have special boots,” Bucky says.

“You don’t need any,” Laura laughs.  “They just strap on.  Wear sneakers if you want.”  She pauses for a second. “I’ll pick you up at four?”

“Sure,” Bucky agrees, reluctantly glad he won’t be spending the week alone.

Over dinner, Lila and Cooper brief him on the plans for the following day.  Dawn-to-dusk winter sports are on the books.  Sledding, showshoeing, and, if he’s up to it, a snowball fight.  

“I bet your arm’s really strong.  Like a baseball pitcher,” Cooper comments.

Laura says his name in subtle admonishment, but Bucky doesn’t mind.  “I don’t know,” he says honestly.  “I haven’t really tested it out.”

It becomes clear overnight that the test will have to be rescheduled, though.  Bucky wakes at o’ dark-thirty with his stomach in his throat, and it’s by sheer force of will that he makes it into the bathroom before he vomits into the sink.  His elbow threatens to give out as he braces himself on the counter, sputtering and coughing.  

Bucky curses under his breath.  What’s he supposed to do with a basin full of sick, especially when his gut’s still churning and he only has one arm to work with?  Especially especially since it’s not even his house.  

He gags again, then bites the bullet and shuffles down the hall to the master bedroom.  

“Um.  Laura?”  Bucky croaks, leaning on the door frame as vertigo swirls around his ears.  

Luckily motherhood’s made her a light sleeper, and she meets him there, cupping his feverish cheeks.  “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t feel good.”  Bucky struggles to hold down a retch.

“Ok.  Alright.  Come’ere.”  Laura ushers him into the ensuite and helps him down in front of the toilet.  She sweeps Bucky’s hair out of his face and pats him on the back.  

“I’m…really sorry,” he chokes when he has the breath to spare.

“Shhh,” Laura soothes.  “Don’t start, ok?  I’d rather you be here than by yourself.”

Bucky can’t argue with her.  He’s glad for it, too.


	111. Steve takes a hard hit and winds up with appendicits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Avengers

Tony saw Steve take a hard hit to the gut, but he’s surprised the supersoldier is still holding his stomach on the flight back to New York.  He waits patiently for Steve to say something, but even in the quinjet it’s a long flight back from Japan.  Eventually his curiosity gets the better of him.

“Alright, are you gonna tell us?” Tony asks, staring at Steve and crossing his arms.

“What?”  Steve looks startled from a daze.

“That you’re expecting.” Tony jokes, nodding at Steve’s hunched posture.  “I’m kidding,” he says when Steve’s confused expression doesn’t budge.  “But seriously.  Are you all the sudden prone to airsickness or something?”

“No…”  Steve shakes his head.  “Got hit.”

“I mean, I saw,” Tony says.  “But, you usually, you know, shake it off.”

“I know,” Steve sighs.  “I just… I don’t feel good.”

“Um.  What?”  Tony cocks his head.

“I don’t know.  I don’t feel good.”  Steve shrugs.  He swallows.  “It’s weird.  It’s–”  He cuts off as his face goes pale.  “Excuse me.”  

Steve jumps to his feet and practically runs for the jet’s tiny bathroom.  

Tony cringes when he hears him vomiting inside.  “Ok, something’s not right here,” he murmurs.  “Hey, FRIDAY, are we over land or water right now?”

“Land, sir,” the AI replies.  “Is there a reason for your request?”

“Just wanted to know,” Tony says.  “Just in case we need to make an emergency landing or something…”


	112. Tony's stomach ulcer doesn't play well with coffee and added stress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Avengers

Tony isn’t sure if Steve instituted the new protocol or if he’s just overseeing it.  But sitting at the conference table with the supersolider pacing behind him making sure he’s filling out his debriefing paperwork is painful.  And stupid.  Maybe painfully stupid.  He decides he’ll blame Steve regardless.

Tony’s already in pain, even without the shiny red boots moving back and forth across the industrial grade carpet behind him.  His gut’s been aching since…Thursday, he thinks?  Maybe before that.  The mug of cold coffee on the table beside his stack of papers probably isn’t helping matters either, but it’s either that or fall prey to the brain fog.  Tony doesn’t think he’d be able to stand the post-mission ordeal uncaffeinated.

He sets down his pen and takes a sip of the beverage.  It’s black coffee, breakroom-grade and nothing fancy.  It should taste like bitterness, with a hint of bleached paper filter.  But Tony almost spits it out when he swallows, burning acid shooting back up over his tongue.  

He puts the mug back down in a hurry and claps his hand over his mouth in case there’s more.  “Geez,” he groans into his palm.  The thread of vomit seems to be neutralized, but his stomach is on fire.  Tony wonders when he swallowed a lit match, because that’s certainly what it feels like.

“Got something to share, Stark?” Steve asks, pausing behind Tony’s chair.

“I know you’re not supposed to ask to go to the nurse during a test,” Tony half-jokes, “But, something’s not right here.”

“Like what?”  Steve’s forehead wrinkles and his brows meet in the middle.  Tony can’t tell if he’s skeptical or concerned, and frankly, he doesn’t care.

“Like I might puke.  Or maybe not.”  He tastes bile again.  “Yeah, maybe.”

“If you go to medical, that form’s still gonna be waiting for you when you get back,” Steve warns.

“Yeah, I don’t care.”  Tony pushes his chair back.  “This is…ow.”  He flattens his palm against his stomach and trips toward the door.

“Ok.”  Steve holds it open for him.  “But remember what I said.  This better not be an excuse.”

Tony brushes past him. He thinks about shooting him the finger, but decides he’s better off putting his hand over his mouth again.


	113. Clint's sick post- mind control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Avengers missing moment/rewritten scene

Nat shows up in the recovery room as soon as she hears he’s out from under Loki’s spell.  It doesn’t do much good for her to hover when Clint’s unconscious, but she can’t bring herself to leave.  

Eventually he opens his eyes.  “Hey,” he says hoarsely.  

“Hey,” Nat replies.  She’s leaning back in her chair, arms and legs crossed in an unconvincing attempt at casualness.  She’s so tense she’s almost trembling.  

Clint’s just trembling.  He sits up on the cot and pinches the bridge of his nose.  

“How’re you feeling?” Nat asks.  

“I’m fine.”  

Nat doesn’t have to see his eyes to know he’s lying.  But she decides to take him at his word and take a swipe at the side of his head with the backs of her knuckles.

“What was that for?” Clint protests, dragging his arms in front of his face.

“Cognitive recalibration,” Nat says shortly.  “And payback.  For worrying me.”

“You?  Worried?”  Clint almost laughs, but it becomes a sound of pain.

“You heard me.”  Nat sits still again, becoming one with the wall.

“Right…”  Clint gives his head a little shake, then swallows convulsively.

“You ok–?” Nat starts to ask, but Clint lunges for the wastebasket beside the cot before she gets the words out.  

“Yeah,” Clint chokes, but he retches again.  “Just, you know.  Headache.”

“You said you were fine!”

“You didn’t have to hit me!”  Clint spits out a mouthful of bile, then looks up at Nat, his eyes red and streaming.  

“Well, you didn’t have to make fun of me,” Nat grumbles back.  “I might kind of care about you, you know.”

Clint fights a sick hiccup.  “Yeah.  I guess I do.  Call it even?”

“Yeah,”Nat sighs.  “I guess I can do that.”


	114. Peter Parker is sick after taking a painkiller Tony and Bruce cooked up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Avengers (a little Irondad/Spiderson and a little Science Bros)

Tony pushes open the door to Bruce’s lab and ushers Peter inside, his arm around the kid’s shoulders.  

“Hey, Banner.  You finished cooking yet?”

“Um…”  Bruce looks up from liquid he’s carefully pipetting into a test tube.  He glances from Tony to Peter and back again.  “Do I want to know why you’re asking?”

“Probably not,” Tony admits, tenderly brushing Peter’s hair away from a goose egg rising on his forehead.  “But suffice to say brick walls are now public enemy number one.”

“Well, I’d like some more time to test it, but I have a feeling I’m going to be outvoted,” Bruce says.  

“Hey, don’t, like, have a fight about it,” Peter says, his eyes sliding in and out of focus.  “I’ll be ok with just regular ibuprofen.”

“No, that’s gonna wear off in like five minutes, and I’m going to get in trouble for exceeding recommended doses.”  Tony steps closer to Bruce’s lab bench and taps a test tube.  “It’s this one, right?”

“Yeah,” Bruce says.  He quickly sets down his tools and reaches for a notebook and pen.  “Let’s see how this goes.”

“Alright, bottoms up, kid.”  Tony hands Peter the test tube.  

The kid throws it back, then wipes his mouth with his hand.  “Uh, what is it?” he asks, though it’s too late now.

“Just a painkiller,” Bruce explains.  “Like ibuprofen, but self-multiplying.  It keeps going once it’s in your system, to keep up with your metabolism.”

“Oh.”  Peter nods, but it looks like it hurts.  “It tastes weird.”  He swallows a few times.

“Well, artificial cherry is next batch,” Tony says.  He nods to Bruce.  “Write that down.”

“What, I’m the scribe now?”  Bruce complains.

“You’re the one who wanted to take notes,” Tony shoots back.

“Um, Mr. Stark?” Peter says weakly.

“Yeah?”  Tony makes one more ugly face at Bruce before turning to the kid.  “Uh-oh.”

Peter’s face is ashen, his cheeks tinged green.  He claps his hand over his mouth as his shoulders begin to to hitch.  

Bruce dives under the lab bench for the trash can, but he gets it into Peter’s hands a second too late.  Sick sprays through his fingers, catching the front of his suit and dribbling onto the floor.

“Ohmygod I’m so sorry,” he chokes.  “I just…my head hurts, and now my stomach…”  He heaves again.

“Ok, don’t worry about it.”  Tony pats him on the back and holds the bin in front of him.  He looks back to Bruce.  “And you better be writing this down.”


	115. Steve's a wreck after losing Bucky (Infinity War spoilers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing moments/canon

Going back into the palace after the battle is like retracing his steps in reverse.  Steve walks through the same entryway and rides the same elevator up to the same lavishly equipped bedroom.  Even the twilit sky out the window has the same hue as last night.  

It’s all wrong, though.  Okoye isn’t supposed to be the one to show him upstairs.  The halls aren’t supposed to be so quiet.  And the  bed isn’t supposed to look so big and empty.

Steve feels dirty.  It’s not just the usual sweat and blood and filth that soaks his uniform and sticks to his skin after a battle.  He feels gritty.  He feels like he’s coated in something that doesn’t belong, but at the same time, he’s afraid of what will happen if he cleans up.  

What if he showers and goes to sleep, and this becomes just another blur of past combat missions at the back of his mind?  What if he forgets the details?  What if Bucky’s voice fades paler and paler until Steve can’t remember him at all?

The thought is terrifying.  Steve makes it as far as the bathroom sink when his knees go weak.  He grips the edges of the counter, trembling.  The black under his fingernails stands out starkly against the white marble.  

_“Steve…”_

A sob rips from his chest.  Steve’s heart drops down to his stomach, then the whole thing rebounds, stealing his breath and filling his mouth with a sour taste.  He gags and listens to the horrible echo of vomit splashing against the basin, but it doesn’t drown out Bucky’s last word.

He is Bucky’s last word.  He can’t forget that.  If that means he has to be stuck in this cycle of memory and pain and sadness and sickness for the rest of his life, he’ll do it.  

Steve spits out the dregs and runs the faucet.  He dips his head to take a drink, but doesn’t let the water touch his hands.  He knows he can’t stay this way, without washing, without moving on.  But he’s not ready to heal.  He doesn’t know if he ever will be.  What he does know is that he can’t make the choice tonight.


	116. Clint's sick on a mission and needs to hear Laura's voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Creedless Assassins

He was fine when they were sitting on the roof, launching projectiles into the officeplex-come-hydra-base across the street.  Clint’s heart rate does’t rise when his lifts his bow, and the can of ginger ale between his feet is no more obtrusive than Nat’s cup of coffee.  

The moment doesn’t last, though.  It only takes so long before the goons in their black suits and ill-fitting bullet proof vests start spilling out into the street.  

“Three,” Nat begins to count down.  “Two.  One.”  She laughs as the front door of the building bursts open, and a bald man with a walkie-talkie and an uzi runs out, staring upward like he’s about to start shooting pigeons off the telephone wires.  

“That’s our stop.”  Nat throws back the rest of her coffee and pulls her gun from the holster on her belt.  She stands up and does a one-handed front flip over the bar of the fire escape, spry as a gymnast, and lands perfectly on her feet on the top step.  “Race you to the bottom?”

“You go on ahead…”  Clint groans as he straightens up.  He has a feeling rushing around isn’t going to agree too well with him.  His system has barely accepted sitting still.  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you want to chase them while I keep picking ‘em off from here…?”

Nat shakes her head, but then a pitiful hiccup sends Clint’s diaphragm shooting up into his throat.  He presses his hand over his lips, trying to breathe and cough at the same time.

“But if you’re gonna keep doing that, maybe I better.”  Nat gives him a sympathetic look.  “I’m not stopping behind a dumpster so you can puke.”

“Yeah, that wouldn’t be my first choice either.”  Clint already tastes bile, sickeningly sweet combined with the artificial sweetener from his ginger ale.

“Ok.  Give me two minutes’ head start.”  Nat surveys the Hydra agents down in the street.  “Then once they’re nice and distracted, start shooting.”

“Aye, aye,” Clint says.

“Don’t call me ‘Captain,’” Nat warns.  “And don’t shoot me.”

“When have I even come close to shooting you?” Clint demands, but he has to swallow convulsively to keep his guts in place.

“Well, your record with the bow’s still good,” Nat acquiesces.  “But I almost thought you were trying to barf on the toilet seat last night–”

“Ok, ok, get going,” Clint says, waving her down the steps.  He knows the teasing is all in good fun, but with the mission pressing from one side and nausea from the other, his patience is becoming more and more compressed.  “I won’t shoot you.  Two minutes.  Clock starts now.”  

He looks at his watch while he waits for Nat to disappear.  Once she’s gone, he keeps staring at the ticking second hand, but he sets down his bow and digs his phone out of his back pocket.  It’s afternoon in Europe, so the clock is probably showing early morning back at home.  He wishes he could ride out this blasted stomach bug in his own bed instead of a chilly Russian rooftop.

He has a minute left.  Clint one-handedly dials Laura’s number.  The line rings out and goes to voicemail.  She’s probably dropping Cooper off at preschool, or maybe on her way to an appointment with the obstetrician.  

Thirty more seconds.  “You’ve reached Laura Barton,” her voice says brightly on the recording.  “Leave a message.”

Fifteen seconds.  Long enough for him to say, “Hey, baby.  Just wanted to say I love you, and I’ll call you later.”  He coughs a little, but the nausea’s down at least.  “Ok, bye.”

Clint returns the phone to his pocket.  Five seconds.  He grabs his bow and steps to the edge of the roof.  Nat’s in the street now, and the HYDRA agents have definitely noticed.  

Two seconds.  Clint takes his aim.

One second.  He fires, then watches as the arrow sail over Nat’s head and buries itself right in the center of the goon’s throat.


	117. Steve has the flu and Tony tries not to laugh

Steve’s usually the first one in and out of the locker room .  It doesn’t matter if he’s at SHIELD for a mission or training, going or coming back.  Punctuality is one of his many virtues.  

Today, though, he moves slowly.  The sweat-soaked t-shirt may as well be part of his body now.  It feels exactly like his skin, cold and clammy, but he’s loath to remove it all the same.

“Hey.”  A wadded up towel hits Steve in the back of the head and flops into a heap on the bench behind him.  He turns to see Tony, slightly disheveled in jeans and a hoodie, the briefcase carrying his armor slung over one shoulder.  

“Here’s your chance, if you wanna sprint out of here ahead of me,” Tony offers, gesturing at the door.  “You know, to keep up appearances.”

It’s the kind of joke that, on any other day, Steve might actually find funny.  He thinks about forcing a laugh, but a swell of nausea passes through his chest when he opens his mouth, and it’s hard enough to just say, “Go ahead.”

“Ok, what’s wrong with you?”  Tony tosses his briefcase on the bench with a clatter that makes Steve’s head throb.  He takes a step closer, and Steve instinctively moves back, bumping into the corner of his locker.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, wincing, then swallowing hard.  “The flu?”

“The flu?”  Tony looks at him blankly.

“Well, I read something, somewhere.”  Steve strains to remember.  “It mutates every year.”

“Yeah, I’m aware.”  Tony laughs.  “Just.  You.  The flu.”

“I don’t think it’s that funny.”  The bitter taste spreading over Steve’s tongue is even more sobering.

“No, you’re right.”  Tony bites his lip, clearly trying to keep a straight face.  “It’s not.  The flu is serious.  It kills people, you know.”

“Yeah, I–”  But Steve’s stomach clenches again, and this time there’s no swallowing the chyme rising in his throat.  “Sorry.”  He makes a mad dash past Tony and throws himself into a toilet stall, the door swinging behind him.

“Ok, yeah, very serious flu,” Steve hears Tony say.  “You need any help?  Somebody to hold your hair?”

“No,” Steve groans.  The jokes might be making him feel worse than his pounding head or swirling gut.  “I’m fine.”

“Alright,” Tony says.  “Well, don’t drown in there.  The flu kills, remember.”


	118. Pepper still loves Tony, even when he's drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> canon ships

Pepper sees the last of the guests out the door and pauses on the front porch as they descend the driveway.  Laura successfully wrests the car keys from Clint’s sloppy grip, relegating her more-than-buzzed husband to the passenger side. She waves at Pepper, who shoots her a thumbs-up in return.

 

Where would the men be without the women who look after them? Pepper muses as she watches Clint and Laura’s headlights disappear around a curve at the end of the block, infinitely glad that someone sensible and sober is behind the wheel. She’d never forgive herself if they crashed, even if the blame was squarely on someone else. Tony would forgive her, but Tony’s standards aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

 

Case in point, Pepper thinks, closing the door and turning to the disorganized living room. Half a dozen plastic cups and as many crumpled napkins litter the coffee table, and shoe prints and cake crumbs are all over the floor. Most concerning, though, is the middle-aged man stretched out on his stomach in front of the fireplace, stacking empty cans into a scale model of a Mayan pyramid.

 

“Hey,” Pepper sighs, bending at the waist to pat the top of Tony’s head. “Working?” Her long ponytail falls over her shoulder, and Tony goes crosseyed for a second, watching it flick back and forth, before he blinks and focuses on her face.

 

“Building.” He adds another can to the stack. It wobbles in place, and he points threateningly at it as if daring it to fall. “’S my greatest creation.”

 

“Really?” Pepper laughs, though she pities him. “A can tower?”

 

“A structurally sound can tower,” Tony corrects, though his pronunciation leaves a little to be desired. He opens his mouth to try slurring out the words again, but his Adam’s apple bobs silently until a gust of beer breath comes out on a wet belch.

 

“Very nice,” Pepper says, rolling her eyes. “Come on.” She reaches down for Tony’s hand. “Time for bed.”

 

“I could put another level on it, there are enough—” Tony gestures vaguely at the yet-to-be-stacked cans, then cuts off with a gulp and fist pressed to his mouth.

 

The colored aluminum reflects the lights on the Christmas tree. It’s kind of beautiful. Maybe a little awe-inspiring, to a drunk mind. But it’s a good thing that only one of them is drunk. Pepper capitalizes on Tony’s distraction and grabs his wrist, pulling him back onto his knees, then onto his feet. “Nope,” she says. “You can play engineer later. Right now you’re not sounding so good.”

 

“I’m fine,” Tony slurs, teetering sideways into Pepper’s shoulder. “I’m good, I’m…” He swallows forcefully again. “Yeah, I’m not feeling so good.”

 

“I—” Pepper starts

 

“Don’t say I told you so,” Tony mutters, his face going grey in the dim lighting.

 

“I wasn’t going to.” Pepper steers him down the hall toward the bathroom. “I don’t need to. You already know. And it wouldn’t do any good, anyway.”

 

“Then…? What…?” Tony trips toward the toilet, stifling a gag with his sleeve.

 

Pepper turns on the bathroom light, then leans against the wall. She crosses her arms, though she’s not sure the posture is right for her attitude. She’s not angry, or disappointed, or even annoyed. She just exists. So does Tony. So does Christmas, and the parties, the alcohol, the hangovers. The brilliance. The mess.

 

“I love you.” Pepper still hasn’t decided on an emotion. But when Tony rolls his cheek over the edge of the toilet seat to look sideways at her, she smiles on instinct.


	119. Loki suffers a migraine, Thor is less than helpful, and they both need a reminder of the rules of the library

Loki grits his teeth and curls in on himself as much as he can while remaining upright.  He wants nothing more than to rest his forehead on the table and wrap both arms around his stomach, but that would betray his pain.  He wouldn’t be able to cope with that.  He settles for perching his elbow on the polished mahogany and pressing the web between his thumb and index finger under his nose, drawing a hard line in the clammy sweat dotting it.  It feels definitive, as definitive as his decision to grin and bear it, to sit here and keep a stiff upper lip.  Literally.

Thor loudly flips through a book.  Loki knows he isn’t doing it on purpose.  He’s Thor, and he does everything loudly.  But the rustling of pages may as well be a litany of razor blades scraped against the surface of his brain.  Loki imagines fine blood vessels severed, greyish flesh and red gore splashing over the table.  That might get his brother’s attention.  And it probably wouldn’t hurt any worse.

It makes Loki’s stomach flip, though.  He swallows heavily and looks up from the pages of the tome he’s pretending to peruse.  “Will you do that somewhere else?” he hisses roughly.  “You’re making my head ache.”

“What, read?”  Thor looks up and rolls his eyes.  Loki imagines him tossing his hair, too.  “You do know we’re in a library.  Where people are expected to read.”

“People are also expected to be quiet.”  Loki can’t bring himself to move his lips, so he has to project to force his voice past the barrier of his teeth.

A teenager in headphones gives them a hard look and an over-loud shushing from the opposite end of the table.  

“Ah, yes,” Thor chuckles.  “I think she agrees with you.”

Loki curses and lets his face slide down so his hand covers his eyes.  

“You could always go home,” Thor reminds him.  “You didn’t have to come with me to…” He gestures around at the dusty bookshelves.  “Wherever.”

“The New York Public Library,” Loki can’t stop from supplying.

“Yes,” Thor says brightly, his volume subconsciously increasing.

Loki’s forehead gives an almighty throb, and he can’t take it anymore.  He stands up, hands clenched in fists at his sides, and shouts. “Shut up!”

It feels good for one second, then adrenaline fizzles.  The teenage girl stares open-mouthed.  Thor guffaws and starts to clap.  Loki’s knees go weak and his gut sloshes sickeningly.  It’s all he can do to keep from vomiting all over the table.  He sinks slowly back to his seat, and this time, he crosses his arms over his book and lowers his head.


	120. Pepper comforts while Tony fights the stomach flu

“God,” Tony chokes, wiping his face roughly on his sleeve.  “Sorry.  You can… You don’t have to–” He breaks off with a retch, nearly missing the trash can in front of him because he’s too busy looking at Pepper.

“Nope.”  She ruffles his hair and gently steers his head downward as she moves the bin closer with her free hand.  “No talking yet.”

“But–” He gulps, desperate to push down the gag that seems to be permanently hanging in his throat.  “I’m done.  Should be done.”

“Shhh.”  Pepper touches the back of his neck, then trails her fingertips around to his cheek to test for fever.  “Your body will tell you when it’s done.  You can’t rush it.”

“Can try,” Tony breathes.  Mucous rattles when he inhales, and he isn’t sure if it’s in his throat, chest, or lungs.  “‘M tired.”

“I know,” Pepper sighs in sympathy.  “But try to relax.  Don’t fight it.”

Tony huffs.  Coughs.  Throws up again.  “That’s…actually really hard.”

“That’s alright.”  Pepper adjusts the bin again.  “I’ll be here to keep reminding you.”


	121. Bucky's migraine leaves him non-functional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heroverse

At first Steve thinks Bucky just has a headache.  He moves a little slow when he gets out of the car, pausing with his hand wrapped around the door handle like he’s catching his breath.  He jumps first when Steve asks him if his head hurts.  Then he says yes.

“Ok.”  Steve reaches for Bucky’s shoulder, testing for a nonexistent fever as he steers him inside.  

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters.  He sounds gurgly, as if they’re kids again and blowing bubbles in glasses of milk while trying to speak.  But it’s ropy saliva that clings to the edge of his lip even after a thick swallow.

“No, it’s fine.”  Steve leads him to the kitchen table and pulls out a chair.  There’s a bottle of Gatorade leftover from lunch, and he nudges it toward Bucky while he opens the cupboard.  Fluids.  Food.  Medication.  He can do this.

“There you go, Buck.”  Steve holds out a handful of ibuprofen and a granola bar.  

“Hm.”  Bucky accepts the pills in his right hand and the food in his left.  It’s normal for his flesh arm to tremble when he’s anxious or feeling sick, but not so normal for the subtle vibrations to come out on the metal side.  It means his spine is shaking.  His very core.

Bucky catches Steve looking over the bottom of the Gatorade bottle, which he drains as he washes down the painkillers.  Steve looks away as he sets it down and tears the wrapper on the granola bar.  He takes the bottle out to recycling, knowing all too well the shame that comes with minor aches and pains, the thoughts that point out that a stronger man would just deal with it.

Steve’s heart sinks when he steps back into the kitchen.  Bucky’s eating, or trying to, at least.  He has the bar’s wrapper torn, but not peeled down, so the bite of compressed oats and brown rice syrup comes off still encased in crinkly silver plastic.  

“Aw, Buck.”  Steve rushes the last step to him, swiping his fingers over Bucky’s mouth and fishing out the wrapper, sticky and slimy.  “Come’ere.”  He guides Bucky’s head to his shoulder and entwines their hands, feeding him all but forgotten.  

“You really don’t feel good, do you?”  Steve kisses the top of his head.

“Nuh,” Bucky grunts.  He’s still chewing with his mouth open, seeming loath to swallow.  

“I’m sorry.  Do you want to lie down?”

“I…” Bucky starts.  “Think ‘m gonna…”  He trails off with a stifled gag, but doesn’t move.

“‘S ok,” Steve promises.  He doesn’t care if Bucky vomits on him.  He’ll hold him all night.  He’ll hold him as long as it takes.

 


	122. Blinders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Powers/No Powers

Bucky holds it in as long as he can, swallowing the tears, breathing down the sobs.  One more minute, he tells himself.  Then one more.  One more.  

Steve’s the one who winds up not being able to stand it.  “Hey,” he whispers, taking Bucky by the elbow and pushing him toward a bench.  “Sit down.  What’s wrong?”

“Hm.”  Bucky can’t say ‘nothing.’  Not any more easily than he can say ‘everything,’ though that would be the truth.  He isn’t sure what thought went wrong, what neuron misfired.  He doesn’t know when, or how, or why.  “I don’t…”  A choked noise comes out of his throat instead of words.

“Ok,” Steve murmurs.  He brushes gentle fingers over the back of Bucky’s neck.  “Ok.  Alright.”

A gasping sob comes gushing from Bucky’s chest, cutting off his airway and ricocheting off his ribs.  His diaphragm hurts.  His windpipe.  His skull.  

Steve swings his backpack off his shoulder.  “Here.  Have a sip of water.”  He uncaps the bottle and gets it into Bucky’s hand, but he can barely hold it.  The sip runs down his chin and darkens the front of his shirt, only a trickle making it between his lips.  His nose starts to drip, and saltiness spreads over his tongue from the front as bitterness feeds up from the back.

“Is it your head?”  Steve has ibuprofen now, snapping the lid off the bottle while the little orange pills bounce around inside.

“Mm.”  It’s disappointing, Bucky thinks.  He can only force a single sound now.  Not even a stutter.  Not even the shaky breath before a stutter.  

“There you go.”  Steve feeds the pills between his lips for him, then offers the bottle again.  Bucky swallows dry, cheeking the tablets because he can’t make his arm move to take the drink.  He coughs.  Gags.  Leans forward.  

He doesn’t bury his face in Steve’s stomach on purpose, but that’s where he ends up.  “It’s ok,” Steve whispers, pulling his arms around Bucky’s torso.  “I got you.  It’s ok.”

 


	123. Steve doesn't want to sleep on a mission with Nat

“Hey,” says a sleepy voice from over Steve’s shoulder.  “You don’t have to stay up, you know.”

“Huh?”  He spins around to see Nat, all auburn halo and dark circles, a blanket wrapped around her slender shoulders.

“ _Sleepless in Seattle_  is just a movie.  Not, like, an order.”  She grins.

“Oh.”  The logic doesn’t follow, but considering their current location, he supposes it’s some sort of pun.  “Well, I’m still not used to these overnight stakeouts…”

“It’s not a stakeout.  It’s a night in a 5-star hotel while we wait for a target.  He’s probably not even made it to the airport yet.”  Nat shakes her head.  “And we’re not pouncing till tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I…I just…”

“Don’t want to sleep with me?”  Nat maintains a straight face, though Steve feels himself go red.

“Not, I… I never…”

“I mean, sleep in the same room as me.  Sorry.”  She gives a cheeky grin.  “I misspoke.”

“Yeah, sure you did.”  Steve tries laughing it off, but the words still ring in his ears.  

“Look.  Two beds.  Go rest.”  Nat puts her hands on her hips beneath the blanket, making it stand out from her like a tent.

“Thanks,” Steve says with sincerity.  “But I think I’d rather keep watch.”


	124. Bruce is lightheaded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Science Bros

“Whoa there, slow poke.”  Tony pauses with one hand on the door to the lab and looks over his shoulder.  

Bruce stands at the top of the stairs, one hand planted on the wall. Beads of sweat drip down his ashen face, and his mouth folds into a tight line.  “I’m fine,” he mutters.  “Just…fine.”

“Right.”  Tony turns and ascends the steps again.  He grabs Bruce’s quivering arm.  “Perfectly fine.”

“Give me a minute.”  Bruce drops his forehead to the back of his hand.  “I’m…maybe a little lightheaded.  I don’t know how you do it, running gym to lab and back again.”  He shakes his head, and his cheeks go a delicate shade of green.

“Is that the other guy coming out, or, uh, something else?  I’m not in the mood for messy.”

“I’ll keep it together,” Bruce promises weakly.  “Like I said, I just need a minute.”


	125. Thor is dizzy from blood loss

“It’s a flesh wound,” Thor grunts, waving Tony away.  “Nothing to worry about.”

“Ok, now that’s funny.”  Tony tries to hide his smile behind his hand as Thor looks at him in confusion.  “You have no reason to know why that’s funny, but it is.  Trust me.”

“I suppose it is comical, seeing as I normally do not bleed during battle,” Thor acquiesces.  “But no need to linger.  The wound will heal quickly enough.”

“Hm, I’m not so sure.”  Tony looks him up and down, taking in the red soaked sleeve and pale face before him.  “Do you want to sit down or something?”

“As I said, there is no need.”  Thor’s voice hitches, and he clears his throat in an attempt to cover it.

“Yeah, yeah.”  Tony pushes him toward a seat and reaches for the first aid kit.  “God of thunder never falls.  I got it.”  He unwinds a length of gauze.  “But put your head between your knees if the dizziness gets any worse, ok?”


	126. Loki can't stop dry heaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor

Loki shakily pushes up his sleeves and goes back to leaning over the toilet.  The mead has long since left his system, but his stomach is yet to drop out of his throat.

“Damn this illness,” he sputters, spitting out strings of mucous and bile.  He heaves again, bringing up the slightest trickle of yellowish fluid.  “And damn the pleasures of this life.”

Loki coughs weakly and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.  He draws in a shaky breath, but he has to quickly reposition himself over the porcelain bowl to prepare for the next onslaught.  He swears again, quietly, then resigns himself to his fate.


	127. T'Challa fights extreme nausea alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pantherverse

T’Challa barely has time to stand up before nausea assaults him like a fist to the gut.  “Bast,” he whispers, wrapping one arm around his stomach and staggering toward the door.  He’s in his office, alone, but the idea of leaving a mess behind in his trash can is still unpleasant.  

“Alright.”  He swallows hard, trailing his hand along the wall as he stumbles out of the room.  

It’s an impossibly long walk down the hallway, and T’Challa has to gulp down a mouthful of bile before he finally bursts through the door to the bathroom.  He throws himself down on his knees, skidding the last few feet to the toilet before a huge heave overtakes him.  

T’Challa hangs his head over the bowl, gasping and sputtering in momentary relief before the sick feeling returns.  The floor seems to tip beneath him as his head spins on his shoulders.  T’Challa groans and rests his forehead on his folded arms, his mouth watering in disgusting anticipation.  

“Alright,” he attempts to assure himself again.  “I am… I will be… alright.”


	128. Feverish Tony tries to flee; pregnant pepper convinces him to stay

“Hey,” Pepper says padding into the hallway and looking to the light spilling out of the bedroom.  “What are you doing?”

“I just…I can’t take this anymore,” Tony mumbles.  He looks over his shoulder halfway through shoving a pair of jeans into a backpack.  “I have to get out of here.”

“Why?”  Pepper places a hand on her pregnant stomach and sinks down on the edge of the bed.  “I thought you were the one without the sudden increase in hormonal stress.”

“Yeah,” Tony muses.  “But, the camera guys hiding in the bushes?  The ads for diapers that keep showing up in the mailbox?”  He shakes his head.  “I don’t know.  I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“So you’re running away?”

“What?”  Tony looks down into the knapsack.  “No!  Just going to hide out in the lab for a few days.  Maybe a few months.”

“I’m due in six weeks,” Pepper reminds him.

“That’s way too soon.”  Tony blinks in confusion?  “Where did all the time go?”

“The wind blew and the pages on the calendar started turning.”  Pepper grins.

“Huh.”

“Or maybe somebody’s been spending a little much time in the lab.”

“Somebody meaning me?” Tony asks with a sigh.

“Yeah.”  Pepper reaches for his hand.  She gives it a squeeze, then brings her hand up to his cheek.  “You’re warm.  You feeling ok?”

“I… no.”  Tony pauses.  “I mean, yes. But…no.  I’m…Pepper, I think I’m cracking up.”

“No, I think you have a fever.”  She takes the backpack from the foot of the bed and tosses it into a chair.  “Why don’t you lie down?  I promise the camera guys won’t find you in here.”

“They better not.”  Tony folds Pepper into an embrace before promptly following her advice.


	129. Steve does throw up on Rocket's ship

“Don’t throw up on my ship,” the raccoon says.

Steve nods blankly, thinking more about the fact that the order came from a raccoon than the content of said order.  The world really is getting stranger and stranger.  A few weeks ago, the prospect of a purple space man coming out of the sky to destroy the galaxy was pure science fiction.  Now it’s a day’s work.

The vehicle begins to quake back and forth as it hovers above the ground.  Steve’s stomach flips ominously, but he’s used to it.  He felt this back in ‘45 when he rode in Stark’s supersonic jet for the first time, then again when he came off the ice.  He’s gotten better about motion sickness with increased exposure to moving vehicles, but this is something else entirely.

The ship tips to an upright position, and Steve’s guts feel plastered to his spine. There’s a huge thrust from the rocket launchers, and without warning they’re hurtling upward.  Pressure forces Steve’s eyes shut, and without a visual to stabilize him in space and time, he feels semi-digested lunch leaching back up into his throat.

“Ok there, Cap?”

Steve pries his eyelids apart to see Nat squinting at him, her eyes two dark beads set in her pale face.  

“Sure,” Steve replies, though a gurgling hiccup escapes with the word.  

“Yeah, right.” Nat pats him roughly on the arm.

“Don’t tell me you find this comfortable.”

“Well, it’s no walk in the park,” Nat says, “But I’m pretty sure I’m not as green as you are.”

“Hm.”  Steve presses his lips shut and glares down at his lap.  Clammy sweat gathers on his forehead, and he gulps ominously.

“Yeah, you’re not ok.”  Nat reaches across the aisle fumble with Steve’s seatbelt.

“Hey, no moving about the cabin,” Rocket shouts from the pilot’s chair.

“Sorry, this one’s an emergency.”

Nat gets Steve halfway to standing when he can’t take it anymore.  His shoulders pitch forward and he nearly bashes his face on the seat in front of him as he heaves.

“Oh, gross.”  Rocket cringes, and the ship makes a violent wobble in midair.

“Hey, watch it,” Steve croaks, but his words are lost as he throws up again.

“I meant what I said.  You’re dead to me, Steve Rogers,” the raccoon mumbles. “Dead, I tell you.”


End file.
